The Pity of Doves
by childoftroi
Summary: The Child came from nowhere, and they've been calling it a miracle - all this time, a miracle. And everything is a misconception: that she loves it, that she desires it, that she does not despise the cause of it. But they have her mistaken. Close the doors, walk into her mind and speak with closed eyes, maybe it's not too late to understand. (Rewrite of 2x01: The Child)
1. Inception

Something has happened.

Her body is frozen beneath the feeling of another person in the room with her, frozen beneath her blankets, frozen beneath a sheen of terror sweat.

She cannot even blink away the clouds from her eyes.

Her lungs refuse her demands for oxygen, all the air remains still and undisturbed, but somebody has been here.

Somebody is _still here_.

A professional emerges in her mind, sleepy and horribly out of practice, throwing around terms like _sleep paralysis_ , and _meditation techniques_.

Her patients must hate her.

Because meditation isn't working, she just can't move herself to follow along with what her brain tells her to do - and nothing is working at all.

A light appears, and it is all she can do to focus on it, her pulse rising harshly at her neck, her wrists.

It is _alive_.

She does not want to think too hard about what's happening, she wants to believe this is a nightmare she will soon wake from, a story she will tell somebody in the morning.

The light is full of depth, it has emotion, it is not flat and unanimated as all those images she sees in sleep.

It is curious, it is _real_.

Trying to move away is a hollow pursuit, and, as a floating sphere, it approaches her body on the bed where she lies, so exposed without defense. Her mind tries to fend it off, but there is something within the presence that makes her recoil, something of innocence, of a _child_.

She cannot move away when it comes so close to her that is skims the surface of her bedsheets. Her heart thudds now, unchecked and frantic, the pulse throbbing in her neck.

The light, in one harsh moment, disappears into her, the feeling like nothing she has experienced before - terrifying, _alien_.

And in that same moment she is reanimated, a puppet with the strings pulled too tight, launching all her limbs up and off the bed to sit shaking, her lungs struggling to provide her the energy to stay that way.

There is no power to any of her movements, her eyes darting back and forth in the darkness with creased brows, searching for where the presence has gone in her mind, a tiny light now amongst all of the parts of herself, inscrutable almost.

She breathes so heavily that her throat burns, but she is a particular woman, and composure is never too far away from her fingertips, as they reach across to her nightstand, grasping at that one piece of cool metal.

"Beverly?"

Her voice, shaking and filled with no kind of conviction at all, slices the silence of night-things, and the lights that she tries to see by are dim and pink, glowing in reflection of all the surfaces around her.

The response is not immediate, and it comes with confusion, soft and sleepy, the woman yawning away her fatigue before she speaks, not needing empathy to know a terrible thing has happened.

"Deanna, are you okay? Is something wrong?"

And there is no answer short enough that doesn't sound insane:

 _A presence_

 _A being_

 _A bright light that is gone now_

 _A duality without name_

So she has no answer, her body all slick with sweat and her brow furrowed as she tries to centre herself, to gather together all the sleeping emotions that her world is filled with; her mind, in its confusion, reaches out for him, sleeping in the way he always did, glowing in colours green and yellow.

"Deanna, are you there?"

She feels the concern so keenly, and then swallows with harshness, lapping her tongue against the roof of her mouth, dry and thoughtful. There is somebody in the room with her, she is double, duplicated; she is so intimately not alone.

"Beverly? Something has happened."

* * *

There is a whole half hour of time that seems to pass her by in a whirlwind, dressing and moving through 3am corridors to sickbay, and at some point she disappears behind her own eyes, trying just so hard to black out all the confusion, the terror, the curiosity of scientists.

Somehow she finds Will again, and his sleep has become restless, disrupted, and she wonders maybe how many times she can reach for his peace before she just takes it away.

So she pulls further back, until she hears Beverly tell her _sorry_ , and all of a sudden the whole universe comes screaming towards her at once.

There are hands on her shoulder where she lies back against a biobed, the scanning arches pinning her down.

"Deanna, I'm done,"

The arches pull away, and the doctor helps her sit up slowly; immediately Deanna's hands come up to press against her temples.

"Oh Deanna, am I -?."

Beverly gasps, but the girl is already moving her hands to wave away the concern, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, short and slender. When she tries to push herself to stand though, she is dizzy, unfathomably so, and she cannot understand why she suddenly feels faint.

Beverly tells her she should sit back down, that there's something _important_ , something _serious_ that they need to talk about.

"I am pregnant, aren't I?"

It's not a question that either of them can sense for sure, and the Doctor's eyebrows arch upwards, impressed, yet her voice remains soft as she drags a stool to the edge of the bed, and sits opposite her to speak.

"You are, yes - it doesn't seem like this is good news for you?"

"I'm not sure, I know I am because I can _feel_ _it_ , but I do not know how."

Beverly's eyebrows settle back into sympathy, and she looks down at the data pad in her hand.

"You said there was a 'presence', in your quarters? The ship's log shows a minor energy disruption around the same time, but there was nothing more noted about it. I wonder if they're connected."

" _They are,"_

Deanna's voice has taken on the quality of a machine's, and in her recollection, she is without emotion.

"There was a being, in my quarters with me as I slept, a light. _Energy_. I felt it, I could not move at all but I saw a ball of light above me. And then -"

She frowns, her eyes fixed to one spot on the carpeted deck.

"I do not know."

"Deanna?"

The young woman is pulled back into the room, and all of a sudden she can feel that Beverly is staring intently at her, and she looks up, raw with honesty, like an exposed wire.

"The light... _entered my body_. And I do not know why, or how, but I _felt_ it."

Beverly is fast-typing some notes down, trying to piece together her version of events without even understanding what she's trying to say, a sensation she is unable to describe.

"Until I get the genetic sample back I honestly couldn't tell you the exact composition of the fetus. But all my scans for the moment are indicating to me a healthy embryo, already a few days into development,"

" _Days_?"

A slender, long fingered hand sprawls against the fabric of her nightgown against her centre, and Deanna is shocked, so rattled that finally some emotion shows in her.

"I have no idea how or why, and there's no easy way to say it, but this pregnancy is _too fast_ , it's accelerating at a rate that is completely unheard of. I've got some numbers running at the moment, but it looks to me that there was no period of extended fertilisation, with a... a _jump_ to immediate fertilised implantation."

She does her best to nod along, having had to take extensive classes in medicine to gain her psychology degree, but here, _now_ , with a tired and clouded mind, she is confused.

"This is incredible... it - it should be impossible… but the rate of development at the moment would suggest you're going to be at full term in approximately 6 weeks,"

Deanna swallows hard, takes a look down at her own body, and Beverly follows her survey, the girl simply too young, too small even to accommodate a second helping of dessert, let alone a baby.

"Six weeks,"

She echoes, nothing more than a whisper, and the older woman dips her head so that their eyes will meet, forcefully, genuinely. And she wishes they had known each other for longer than a year, wishes they could be close enough that Deanna would just let herself be weak in her presence.

"This is really something you need to let sink in, Deanna, you should try to get some sleep, I'm going to have to stay and run some more sample analysis' anyway, and you won't have to worry about informing the Captain, I can do that for you."

Deanna nods numbly, stands now a little stronger on her legs, her arms falling limply down at her sides as she leaves, words failing to say anything more than _thank you_.

* * *

It is possible to _feel_ the exact moment that Beverly tells him about her, to discern the complete change that occurs within him, a kind of terror that grips his heart in silence. She can imagine that his face must be nothing but that same terrible command facade he holds up infallibly, regardless of what he truly feels.

And still, she knows what is inside him as keenly as though the sensation is her own; she can feel that he has allowed only a small sadness to permeate his awareness, yet there is something which she knows is beginning to rise in him like the swell of a wave.

He is angry.

Angry, maybe, because she is _his_ counselor, _his_ to watch over as Captain, because after Tasha, people keeping taking his crew away from him and beating them down into the ground. He is angry, yes, terribly angry, because isn't this supposed to be _his_ ship?

And wasn't he promised _control_?

It is impossible to sleep, impossible because of what she feels inside herself too, not sure if even she is angry, or scared, or perhaps just _too tired_ to sleep, in that terrible way she often is.

Her quarters are gradually becoming lighter along with the changing time, and the walls are soaked in his anger, her confusion, all the uncertainties that have been holding her in suspension.

Her tea has gone cold in the palm of her hand, the mug now just like ice and cold ceramic and filled almost to the top with a rich red liquid. In one moment, it reminds her of the thickness of blood, and in another, of nothing at all.

There is a presence that hasn't left her since she first felt it, and how naive of Beverly to think she could just tell her to sleep and it would happen, how hideously _unprofessional_ to just send her away. But of course the woman is not a therapist, she is a Doctor, and so she had presented her patient with a diagnosis, with _facts -_ if such a thing they could be considered - and sent her on her way.

 _Hideously professional_.

She wants to know why there had been a tiny light of confidence in the woman when she spoke of a child, as though she believed if anyone could raise a child it would be _her_.

Eyes, dark and heavy lidded, scan the room around her, everything red like tea, and assess how her life is going to change if she lets it, how she is probably the _least_ capable person to raise a child on a moments notice, how even the space she lives in has only just developed a sense of order and normalcy.

Beverly must have been deluding herself, trying to find some way to make this situation into something just bearable enough to continue through, and 3 hours 27 minutes and 4 seconds is not enough time to come to terms with this news.

Six weeks is not enough time.

Yet somehow Beverly believes she can do it, even if only with a small part of herself, she _believes_ it nonetheless.

She wishes she could be so confident herself - but where is she to put a crib, to find childcare, to continue on in her duties, to relinquish a small part of what she loves?

At one point, she had desired children more than anything, she had burned with a desire to have the life her parents had, so comfortable, so domestic.

" _I'm going to be a mama someday, mama,"_

 _She states matter-of-factly, small feet skipping around on the grass and hands clutching to a floppy eared plush bunny. Her mother smiles up at her from atop a blanket, her face young and free of the concerns of her work for a few minutes of time._

 _~You will need a husband first, little one~_

 _A voice appears in her mind, and the little girl pouts, her bottom lip thrust forward and shining pink, furrowing her brows in response._

 _~Why?~_

 _Deanna whines back, and her mother's face lights further in an impressed, beaming smile, proud that she is finally beginning to show considerable talent for telepathy, in spite of her disabi-_

" _What lies is she feeding you now, princess?"_

 _Her father is climbing towards them up the grassy bank, his palm opened out in a handful of picked fruits; he kisses Lwaxana on the cheek as he passes her._

" _Daddy!"_

 _Deanna exclaims, loud enough to startle a cluster of fowl from the surface of the water, and up into the air in a flurry of frantic motions._

 _They disappear behind the line of forest trees._

 _In a movement much the same, she is swept into his arms and up onto her father's hip, reaching to cling onto his neck with her small, grabbing hands._

 _He pops a piece of fruit into her mouth, and then one into his own, and the two of them are a picture of joy._

" _Mama says I have to be_ _ **married**_ _before I can have a baby,"_

 _She complains with lips that spill red juice as she speaks, and her mother tries not to say anything about talking with your mouth full, if only for Ian's benefit of actually hearing his daughters voice._

" _Married?"_

 _The man exclaims with a deep chuckle, and he turns an incredulous look upon his wife, who tries her best to appear innocent - he has always known better._

" _She's only four, love,"_

" _Nearly five!"_

 _Both parents turn to laugh at their daughter, protesting from in his arms still, already a picture of what is best in them, black eyes and thick black hair, but with soft features and her father's nose - a smile they share._

" _Well, of course, how could I forget!"_

 _Ian responds, seeing how she has already eaten all the fruit from his hand, and has it artfully smeared across her face; he is speaking aloud in Betazoid for the benefit of his wife, the unspoken considerations between them what makes their relationship work._

" _Why do you want a baby now then, you're still our baby?"_

 _She giggles and squashes her little fist against his neck more tightly._

" _Not now, silly!"_

 _Deanna squeals._

" _And you certainly don't have to be married if you don't want to be, you might even want a wife instead,"_

 _He tells her, earning a narrowed gaze from Lwaxana, though she has never questioned his parenting before._

" _Like Chandra's mamas?"_

" _Exactly,"_

 _Deanna's face creases in concentration for a moment, looking over and down at her mother and remembering their conversation._

" _But mama says-"_

" _Ignore mama, she's old-fashioned,"_

 _He cuts off her speech, only a little concerned over how Lwaxana tries to model the girl - children so often are like wet cement. A quick movement, and he has dropped Deanna onto her feet again, kneeling in front of her and pulling down the creased hem of her dress to level out at her knobbly knees._

" _You can do and be whatever you want, so long as it makes you happy,"_

 _His smile, kind and wise, is what remains in her mind for longer than it stays on his face, and behind him, she regards her mother with apprehension._

" _I don't need to be married?"_

" _Nope,"_

 _Ian tells her, something of mischief rising in his eyes._

" _But you do need to run!"_

 _He exclaims, all of a sudden on his feet and reaching down to tickle along the sides of her ribs, a delightful squeal of joy leaving her in that one instant. Deanna runs from his grabbing hands, all the movements exaggerated, her bare feet tripping up in the long, green, summer grass._

 _The sun is alight in the back of her eyes._

There is no sun in her quarters, and she is not four years old anymore, her father cannot speak with her as he used to, though she is almost certain that he has been carrying her still, this whole time.

She cannot raise a child in the grass, or the sunlight, or even with a father like her own - she isn't sure if she will keep it at all, isn't sure if that's possible.

But Picard is still angry, near enough to a father as she has anymore, someone to watch over her, to be outraged on her behalf, someone who she hopes she can rely on for support.

The sun is not coming up, but the ship is coming alive slowly, and Beverly has left the Captains company to return to sickbay, to maybe try and eat some breakfast like any normal person who is just now waking.

Her quarters are dim, and she is _pregnant_ , fatherless, full of a fatherless child and the fear for what her life is becoming - fearful for what is becoming of her.

It's 7:30 am, and she remembers a time when she thought she could do anything she wanted to, not needing to be _married_ , not needing to make plans or preparations a whole hundred years in advance. She remembers running on blades of grass in bare feet and being free, _loved_.

A light flashes on the monitor at her desk, she does not have to squint to read what it says.

The ship is stationary, suspended in space at the very edge of a nebula cloud, investigating, but for the moment, maybe just _witnessing_.

Beyond the viewport, the patterns of space are beautiful, truly, but there is not room enough in her eyes for much of beauty.

She is trying hard not to cry, before even a word has been spoken.

The Captain emerges at her shoulders, and she had not felt him coming.

"Counselor I -"

His words fall away from him, unsavoury, and now that he is near, a short burst of agitation erupts within him - it is gone just as soon.

"Doctor Crusher tells me something has happened,"

In the reflection of the window, he watches how her face falls further into thought.

"Something which she cannot medically explain,"

He adds, still a hand over one of her shoulders, the fingers burning with a desire to pull away from her.

"How are you?"

There is silence with no lease, rampant, her reflection still unmoving, unfeeling perhaps.

"There is-"

Low and timid, she turns around, and his arms fall away to his sides to allow himself to just look down into her deep eyes, wondering where it is they might end.

"I-"

Still, there are no words which can leave her with any kind of conviction, and she's no clear idea of where to go next: she is without direction not for the first time.

"I do not know how I feel,"

She says finally, firmly, carefully.

"There is something which I can hardly sense,"

She swallows, her eyes leaving his to scan the ceiling, the walls.

"And it will not _leave_ me,"

A hitch in her voice, and she cannot now look at him directly, everything starting to cloud over in the way that she had hoped it wouldn't.

"Deanna,"

Picard sighs emphatically, and somehow she has turned all the air electric with what she feels, what she is not allowing _herself_ to feel, projecting it instead onto any living thing nearby.

He understands now why she has isolated herself; his mind is starting to spin.

The slender arms she holds onto herself with tighten against her skin, tense up, and it is clear now to him that, in this light, she is truly terrified, paranoid, grappling with the feeling of not being alone even when she is, of being _two_.

"Jean,"

Her voice, soft like french rain, and fine like vineyard wine - his heart misses several beats.

 _Today, she is blue, allover blue: her dress, her shoes, her tights - her_ _ **mood**_ _._

 _She has folded herself into something familiar on his ready room sofa, and for just one moment more than he has to, he is looking at her._

" _Tea?"_

 _He offers, already removing his own from the replicator and delighting in the smell of it, regarding her as though she is now a permanent fixture - how far they have come._

" _No, thank you,"_

 _She declines, polite, peculiar, but he does not allow this to perturb him._

 _A few moments follow when neither has very much more to say, each daring the other to start a conversation in the midst of all the silence, so companionable as it is._

 _He sits heavily behind his desk._

" _How are we?"_

 _He asks, looking around at all the corners of the room, wanting to emphasise more than his words could ever do._

" _The crew?"_

 _Deanna clarifies; they both know she does not need an answer._

" _There is grief - as in all things - but I believe people are growing in her memory,"_

 _A beat._

" _Tasha should be proud of the legacy she leaves behind her,"_

 _Contemplative silence follows, and he looks deeply into her eyes where she guards her own emotions closely, wondering if she is concealing feelings that she has not yet shared in the way that others share them with her._

" _How are_ _ **we**_ _?"_

 _She asks him in kind, and the trance is broken._

" _Me?"_

 _A beat._

" _I was hoping you might tell me?"_

 _He responds, helpless like a child, but then, maybe he is asking too much of her, for she is just a child too._

" _You no longer feel responsible, I can tell, but you are worried about something else now,"_

 _Deanna states, crossing her legs and leaning herself a little further back against the cushions, one hand traveling to rub once across her forehead, and then to rest gently back in her lap. He takes a moment to revise his thoughts, scared for a moment that he has been caught fretting over her._

" _You helped me to come to terms with the senselessness of her passing, that's true,"_

 _He takes a quick sip from the top of his teacup._

" _I know now that there was nothing I could have done to stop it, to_ _ **save**_ _her,"_

 _Deanna's eyes narrow slightly at him, pensive in her assessment._

" _But you worry now for another?"_

 _She asks - another non-question._

 _Easier than speaking, he nods, and she begins to smile softly,_ _ **knowingly**_ _._

" _Me?"_

 _It seems she has all the answers that he cannot provide, and so he smiles back at her, watching how the expression is not so genuine upon her face as he would like to see, and very soon she has returned to something more neutral._

 _It is unnerving to say the least._

" _I worry for you Counselor,"_

" _Please,"_

 _And it really seems as though she is pleading._

" _Call me Deanna,"_

 _His eyes soften for her._

" _ **Deanna**_ _,"_

 _He echoes._

" _I worry because you're so young, and you take on so much,"_

 _Arms, long and sweeping, motion upwards and above himself._

" _You feel the whole ship when she grieves, you're our counsel, but who's yours?"_

 _Deep in his chest, his heart forgets to beat._

" _I am_ _ **fine**_ _Captain,"_

 _She tells him, and it is not a secret to either of them that she is lying._

" _ **Deanna**_ _,"_

 _He echoes once more, chides her in that way he does, tries not to make her feel wrong for trying to save him from her truth._

" _How often have we met like this?"_

" _Hm?"_

 _The mood changes just slightly, and she is caught off guard._

" _How often have we had tea together, given advice to one another as confidants, and not as colleagues?"_

 _And he truly is asking her a question._

" _I am not sure,"_

 _A beat._

" _Time enough that you should not be calling me Counselor,"_

" _But not enough for you to stop calling me_ _ **Captain**_ _,"_

 _He responds quickly, a quip maybe, if he weren't being so serious. Deanna swaps over her crossed legs, busying her hands with rearranging the pleat in her skirt._

" _Your mother has no trouble calling me by name,"_

 _The memory of Lwaxana and all her intimacy surfaces in the inflection of each of his words, and somehow a fond, albeit tight smile, emerges from her morosity._

" _My mother is not your subordinate,"_

 _She tells him, and he is sad that she thinks of their conversations this way, where rank ought not matter._

" _Besides,"_

 _The girl adds,_

" _I know how that makes you uncomfortable,"_

 _A brighter, freer smile comes upon her._

" _And so does my mother,"_

 _Without check, a laugh escapes him, hot and short and joyful enough to set her into a tinkle of laughter also, brief and_ _ **delightful**_ _._

" _You're right that being called Jean-luc makes me uncomfortable,"_

 _He swallows, shudders._

" _That reminds me of_ _ **my**_ _mother,"_

 _They trade in quick laughs again, the lingering fear of a young boy lighting them both up._

" _But for my friends,_ _ **Deanna**_ _, I like to be called Jean,"_

 _She affords him a slight nod, something serious blanketed over them suddenly._

" _We're friends aren't we,"_

 _He pauses._

" _You're not here now because you are obliged to be?"_

 _Deanna nods again._

" _So, if I am allowed to call you Deanna, then why can't you call me Jean,"_

" _ **Jean**_ _,"_

 _She echoes._

 _Her tongue laps against the roof of her mouth, and there is something terribly endearing about how her voice works around his name, her accent turning it into something unique to only her._

" _See, it's not so difficult for me to be just a man, and not the Captain,"_

 _She nods for a third time._

" _And you can be just Deanna, if you ever need to not be the Counselor,"_

" _I told you I am fine,"_

 _Her voice, this time, comes with no conviction at all._

" _I don't believe that,"_

 _Now a little cooler, he takes another sip of tea._

" _You were right there when she was killed, you must have felt it happen,"_

 _He sighs._

" _I would not be so fine if I was trapped in a shuttlecraft while my friend was killed for my sake,"_

 _The words are purposefully abrasive, but he fails to gain any kind of reaction from her, those eyes remain as elusive as they have ever been._

" _And then, to have to listen to the grief of the crew, to_ _ **feel**_ _it with the gift that you have -"_

 _Another sip._

" _I could not imagine."_

 _Deanna meets his gaze, unrattled by him trying to coax something out of her - it is clear that there is much more skill required in therapy than he gives her credit for._

" _It is my job,"_

 _She states, and for the first time in weeks, she looks tired._

 _In a flurry of blue fabric, and black, flashing hair, she stands._

" _But if for any reason I find myself in need of a conversation,"_

 _She tips her head towards the mug between his palms._

" _And a good cup of tea, then I know where I can find you,"_

 _Just an inch before she hits the sensor for the door panel, she turns to fix him with a coy smile, wry even._

" _ **Jean**_ _,"_

 _She is gone._

" _Jean_ ,"

She whispers again, trying to save face by holding tightly onto herself still, that she may not tremble too violently.

Again, his heart tightens in his chest, and this would be so much easier for him if she were calling on him as a Captain, and not as a friend - but he had been the one to lay the boundary.

"How-"

A breath.

"How can I make this better?"

He asks, so sincerely that the lights dim around them, paled in comparison to the morning sky in his own eyes.

"I don't know what to do,"

She whispers, barely audibly, but he does not have to strain to hear her, because there is much less of a tragedy to her than perhaps there ought to be.

There is the sound of scuffing feet, and he glances down to see how she rearranges herself slowly.

"Are we friends?"

She asks him now, poignantly, a perfect mirror to the memory he has tried not to get too swept up in.

"I like to think so, yes"

"Are you my friend for _this_?"

A hand ghosts past her middle.

"Or do you have to be my Captain?"

Nobody is breathing, and it is not a terribly charged question, but somehow there is something there, only one year old, not worth disturbing.

"I was hoping - I think - I'd like to be both,"

Picard tells her, tripping over all of his words.

"If I can?"

An emotion wells in her, and she's not sure if it is even her own, something which she has not sensed in an achingly long time, directed towards her.

Something _paternal_.

So she nods to him, vigorously, hair bouncing upwards and eyes gleaming a few unshed tears - the face of a child, of a woman terrified.

In a moment he hopes not to regret, Picard moves towards her even closer, his arms opening around her frame to embrace her, to hold onto her tightly enough that he might hold her together.

It lasts only a few seconds.

Somehow, that is enough.

When he pulls away, there is a brief sound of loss that leaves them both, of the effort expended in being such different versions of themselves - the roles almost reversed.

He steps much further away than before, and further back into the room, away from the viewport where that same nebula continues to respire, to breath and grow in great sweeping motions of gas and rock.

"The others,"

He blurts, the realisation coming to him as he remembers finally where they are and what they do.

"The meeting doesn't start for another 15 minutes, why don't you take a seat?"

Deanna nods again in response, more placidly this time, and he wishes he were not needed on the bridge in that brief time, that maybe he could watch over her in-case she is not built to survive what will come.

There is very little behind her eyes, and they cannot tell him anything he hasn't heard before.

So he leaves, with little else he can do, and fills his mind with all the things that calm him, hoping she may be calm too.

He disappears, and so too does she: behind her eyes, behind a window into space, behind the walls, gleaming white around herself, deep in her, until she cannot feel anything of anyone at all.

* * *

" _A baby_!"

She hears, and looks up from the table; when she sat down, she doesn't recall; when the whole room filled with people, she does not know.

Beverly is watching her curiously from a blank wall monitor, and 8 other eyes watch her from the other end of the table.

 _Why had she chosen to sit so far away?_

Geordie is the only person not there, maybe even the only one she misses for the simple fact of his visor, that whatever he might see of her face, he would see the temperature rising beneath her cheeks - he would look away.

"This is a surprise,"

Will adds, and a shock of venom lights up her tongue as she still is lost beside the viewport, so many minutes before where they have all arrived at.

"More so for me,"

She responds, meeting his eyes, just now realising what's happening, the look on Picard's face saying something of a warning - now, he is her _Captain_.

Beverly steps in, affording neither man the chance to say anything back, maybe for the best, Riker's face having morphed into a certain kind of shock that threatens anger.

"This pregnancy is like nothing I've ever seen before,"

She starts, pushing in a series of brief commands so that the monitor lights up in muted colours, Deanna's name printed starkly across the top of the image.

"When Troi came to me, just over eleven hours ago, I conducted a half hour period of observation using some of the most precise scanning equipment we have,"

The image on the screen begins to move, starting with a small cluster of cells, and then all of a sudden dividing and splitting at such an unprecedented rate to grow into a much larger entity, something which starts to show signs of taking on a specific shape just before the timelapse freezes on its image.

"In that time, I observed a rate of cell division that, up to this point, I had thought was biologically impossible,"

Crusher continues, her eyes focusing mainly on the Captain, Will and Deanna, the three who will need the most to understand.

"What started as a group of approximately 64 embryonic cells, multiplied to almost 10,000, at a rate of over 7 times the genetic baseline,"

She explains, fanatical almost over the specific numbers of it all, but there is a certain confusion to her audience that stops her from continuing.

"What does that mean Doctor, what are we looking at here?"

Picard asks, clear that he is not talking about the frozen image.

"Well, at the moment the embryo is not deviating from the usual growth pattern, suggesting that it's likely a developing humanoid foetus, but I can't complete a full genetic analysis until there's more material to sample,"

At the bottom of the table, Deanna takes in one deep breath, her walls glowing the strain of holding them against the tide of emotion directed her way.

"At this rate, Counselor Troi will have her baby in just under six weeks,"

The doctor says, switching off the monitor at last.

"The normal gestation period for Betazoids is ten months,"

A beat of stunned silence - here is something Deanna had not even really cared to think much on the first time she was told.

Now, it is as if a weight has been dropped on her.

"I don't mean to be indelicate,"

Will blurts, clear that he is about to be,

"But who's the father?"

Beverly moves to take a seat while he speaks, beside Worf and Data, who have remained dutifully silent up to this point.

"Last night,"

Deanna's voice is surprisingly crisp, surprisingly present in her silence.

"Something - a presence, I do not know - came into my quarters while I slept,"

She regards Will separately to the others, wanting to draw on whatever it is between them to make him understand: but he is angry, and remoresfull, with origins unfathomable.

"I cannot tell you how, or why, but something _entered my body_ ,"

There are several seconds of silence until Picard feels that this is his turn to be the Captain, to take charge.

"A life-form of unknown origin and intent, is _breeding_ right now in Counselor Troi, our purpose here is to determine what is to be done about it - discuss,"

Worf is the first to say anything, having been sitting on his knee jerk reaction with practiced patience.

"Captain, obviously the pregnancy must be terminated,"

"Woah, hold on there Worf,"

Will tries to rush to her defense, however poorly.

"You can't deny this must be a deliberate act, the chances of it being a random occurrence are far too high,"

"Exactly,"

The Klingon responds.

"For the safety of the ship and crew, it must not be allowed to continue any further,"

"You can't just assume belligerent intent!"

Will looks across at Crusher, a fist against the tabletop unknowingly.

"Doctor, you said tests indicate the foetus is humanoid,"

She nods affirmatively.

"That's the preliminary assessment, yes,"

He turns back to Worf.

"Captain, this is a life-form,"

Data interrupts, full of awe always of anything which _lives_ \- it is magic to a child.

"Not to allow it to grow would deny us the opportunity to study it,"

The captains face falls a little: he had hope that this conversation would not delve into something of experimentation, of _incubation_ and _study_. He tries to gauge Deanna's response, but it is clear that she is not listening at all.

"If the foetus is aborted, laboratory analysis is still possible,"

Worf looks sidelong at Data, trying hard to push his opinion into whatever avenue they discuss.

"I'm not sure I appreciate where this is going gentleman,"

Beverly interjects, a hand pressed to her chest in shock.

"Whatever you might think my job is aboard this ship, I certainly don't put babies in jars, Mr Worf,"

The man becomes silent in his apology, and Data chooses to say nothing on it, both men maybe not even realising what they had tried to suggest.

"What is the health risk to Deanna if it _is_ aborted, Doctor?"

Riker asks, and at the sound of her name, Deanna's eyes alight just a little more, her consciousness being pulled back into the room.

" _Medically_ ,"

Beverly stresses.

"There isn't one,"

"Is that your recommendation?"

Around Deanna, the words slowly begin to catch up to her mind, and a dawning realisation crushes her in two: that the room is full of _men_ \- men who cannot understand what it is to have something grow of you, to hate it and to love it all the same.

"Captain,"

She utters, finally finding the force in her voice.

"I _appreciate_ that your opinion is important,"

Her eyes take a moment to address each of the senior staff one by one, feeling anger like a real rain within her, indignant that she had almost let them run away with the choice for her.

"But whatever decision I make about _my body_ , is mine and mine alone,"

Picard focuses on her, tries to not let it show on his face that he was terrified that was what she was going to say, tries instead to put a grim smile of pride there instead - pride, that she is her own person.

"I believe that ends the discussion,"


	2. Will

He can recall the exact moment when he realised just how he'd let himself care for her, in a way that he never intended. It was something in her nature that made him feel responsible, and no matter the pain that was caused him by Tasha's death, he was determined that Deanna would not follow.

He had convinced that skin of evil to let him see her, and so he had found himself looking down on where she lay, one of her legs bent inwards and tucked closer to herself than the other.

She told him she was fine and he knew it was a lie.

And then the moment, the _exact moment_ , the split second after she had asked how Tasha was - that was when he knew.

He had turned to her with awe, away from Ben whose pulse was faint beneath his fingertips, and the realisation had hit him like the mass of an entire planet.

That she was not isolated in that shuttle, that she had _felt_ Tasha's death as though it were her own: and in her question he had found within him the truth behind their relationship.

He cared, he cared more than he thought was professional, maybe than he still thinks is professional, but there is nothing that he can do to change it.

And to realise that he had done it again, the clear parallel between the encounter at farpoint and that with Armus, of the things she could feel and the true power of her empathy, putting her in a situation where she herself could easily have died too - he had admitted it to himself.

He _cares_.

Now that she faces something he cannot control for her, as a captain or as a friend, he finds himself wishing that maybe he didn't care so much, that maybe it would be easier to watch how she struggles, and feel still able to continue in his duties.

But he is sitting on the bridge, and his heart is pounding as though he's just run a marathon, when really it is the adrenaline still rushing through him at the sound of her voice, the sight of her walking away from them all and into the unknown.

This ought not be a situation that has him flat on his back like this, it could be anybody, it _should_ be anybody, but it is not. He can't understand what it is that has him reeling for her - it's not as though he is in _love_ with her. Of course, in the beginning, he couldn't help but notice her body, her simple sensuality that seemed genetic almost; in his age though, these things begin to mean less and less to him, until he found himself not caring much how she looked, as long as she was well.

And it is this kind of platonic care that he thinks she must breed in others, that is the only explanation for how he has taken to her like no other member of his crew, not just for the simple fact of how she pushes him to look further within himself, but also into the minds of others.

She provides him insight, where previously he had none; she gives off a charm that is unprecedented at her age.

She is thousands of years older than she looks.

So maybe this is the culprit instead, the feeling that she could be any age at all, that to speak with her she reflects all the experience and all the feeling of himself, everything which he looks for in a confidant, a companion.

It could be that this is a cheap trick, then: to use her empathy to become a mirror for him, in order to get close to him in a short amount of time. But no - he is quite sure that's not it.

Regardless of what special quality she may possess, he cannot now change the fact that he cares for her, that he is starting to feel like one day he might look back and call her _daughter_ , more than just friend or counsel, more than his _god-given solace_.

Then, maybe, he is giving her more credit than she deserves.

The problem is, he will probably never know.

* * *

She is afforded her solitude for only a few days after the meeting, and still the adrenaline hasn't worn off. But as the third day rolls over her, all it takes is one question from Geordi - who was just worried that she looked pale - to set the entire crew off on gossip.

It's horrible to suggest that she is hiding herself away, but somehow, that is what she's doing, having cancelled her appointments for the rest of the day, and drawing on the sympathy of the Captain to get out of bridge duty.

She feels like a sulking teenager.

That may be the case if she were not just sitting in the darkness and thinking about what to do with all the confusion she is carrying around, whether to terminate, trying to define what has happened to her. She started meditating on the sofa the second her mind landed on the word _rape_.

Nobody ever asked for a child that way.

There is a chime at her door, and she is too lost inside her own mind to discern who it is.

It's Beverly and her override codes, full up of some feeling that is conflicted, and the med-kit she has tightly in her hands.

The woman is saying a lot, but telling her very little at all, suddenly a whirlwind that has descended on her little piece of solitude, scanning her body and pulling her into all the feelings she had finally frozen away.

She is talking about blood pressure, and kidney function, and _oh god I knew this would happen_ , opening out her med-kit whilst babbling on about all the terrible things that would happen if she hadn't arrived so soon.

Beverly does not want to listen to any protests, to _I feel fine_.

But when Deanna leaves the sphere in her mind where she is grasping for solitude, she can feel that her body has become weak, and she is shaking, unable to breathe quite right, the world spinning just a little too quickly.

Beverly tells her to lie back, but she can't quite get so far before she is launching back upwards, newly animated and retching sourly, leaning over the side of the futon. There is some kind of waste bag beneath her chin, and a slender hand sprawled at the small of her back, rubbing circles that follow a rhythm she just can't force her body to adhere to.

And _how odd_ , she thinks, that she cannot hear either one of their voices over the blood in her ears.

She tries to reach for Will once more, but he has lost his serenity, replaced now by the jealousy he has been burning with for days, and she is forced to reel away from him. Deanna reaches instead for the physical world, steadies herself against the doctor's arms, braces herself until all of a sudden there is something cold against her neck, and the world slows down, all her muscles relax, and her mind is woozy.

She is lowered back against the futon, and she can no longer feel what Beverly feels, and the ship, for moments in time, is without her, and she is an island alone in a storm.

The doctor's hands on her shoulders, her forehead, the top of her leg, the side of her neck, but her eyes have become too heavy to do little more than simply register the warmth of touch against her. Beverly is speaking, maybe to nobody, or maybe to her, but whatever was in that hypospray, and all those that follow it, is sending her off into empty space, adrift but no longer spinning out of control, just still, and floating untethered to any other mind than the one being so tightly at her centre, like a coiled spring.

And suddenly she wakes, her muscles all aching, yet they are tucked up beneath her own woven blanket, and she is on her bed somehow, very little light filters through her eyelids. She is no longer alone, and there are minds seemingly all around her, buzzing away their own thoughts and emotions that permeate her awareness, so unprepared as she is to build up her walls, and fend them off.

Beverly is close by, behind the doors, and there is some calm, confidant soul beside her, speaking she thinks, but her ears have failed to hear any sound. And as in all things, she seeks out Will, whose conscience appears clouded now, confused and remorseful, though he is not close by.

There is a shrewd cloud of anxiety which hangs over the crew, and she wonders who knows, how many of them have learnt of her state, and how far has it spread this quickly. She tries to enter into Beverly's mind, to listen in on the conversation, maybe even just in bits and pieces, but she is clumsy, and obtrusive, pushing her own thoughts in front of her for maybe only just a split second, but it is enough.

The doors puff open, and she walks inside impatiently, leaving Picard on the futon beyond them before they close again.

"Deanna, I was thinking you might be awake,"

She finds herself trying and failing to respond, and her throat is dry, so she simply swallows once, the taste of sick gone somehow.

Beverly comes further into her room, a glass of water somehow in her hand, and she says - _you're dehydrated_ \- pulling her up to sit against the headboard without protest.

Deanna drinks greedily, slowed only by the Doctor's steady hands on the cup, withholding with such care it's like being a child again.

All of a sudden she desires her mother more than anything.

All of a sudden she misses everyone.

"How are you feeling?"

Beverly asks now that it's clear that all the water has gone, and the Counselor's face seems to draw together in thought, pensive and concentrated.

"I do not know - what happened to me?"

For a moment she is taken aback by the woman's lack of self-awareness, for a Betazoid to be so unsure of themselves is almost unheard of, and yet still, Beverly tells her about what she has found.

"I think this has to do with your pregnancy. It seems…"

She sighs, struggles to find the words, then looks back into the eyes of her friend, see's how they see right into her.

"Deanna, the speed of this pregnancy is - well, it's going to drain you. Hell, it's already started,"

Her hands seek out one of Deanna's legs beneath the blanket, where she sits on the bed beside her, a crease in the centre of her brow.

"The only reason I got to you so fast is because there's a permalink of your vitals to my office monitor, and I saw how, in the space of seconds, you lost blood pressure, your heart rate dropped, and you began to experience the early stages of organ failure."

Deanna blinks, seemingly unimpressed, still staring into her eyes as though they were nothing but windows into some second truth that even Beverly cannot know.

"This is serious stuff, Deanna - I did a sample analysis of your blood, and you're deficient in almost everything that is important to _staying alive_. You're liver was about to go into shock because your blood was becoming toxic."

"But you aren't surprised?"

The doctor sighs, knowing she has been speaking on deaf ears, to a girl who has such an intense hatred for sickbay that she would do almost anything to avoid going, to someone who has instead been following her emotions, the loose thoughts that have escaped her awareness without knowledge.

She tries to take a deep breath.

"No, no I'm not surprised. I didn't expect to see this kind of rapid progression, but given that 10 months of gestation is projected to take place in the space of six weeks, I'd be a fool to think this will be _normal_."

Deanna nods her head, feeling it rather than understanding, and her eyes pull away for a moment to look down over herself, assessing, calculating.

"But I feel fine now?"

There is agitated humour within Beverly, she moves her hand away to rake through the hair in front of her face.

"You feel fine because I am an excellent Doctor, and there are at least 7 different hypospray cocktails that have gone into doing that,"

Deanna smiles lightly, sorrowful and understanding.

"And I am very grateful for that, really."

There is blanketing silence for moments that are drawn out by the sound of deep breathing and the thrumming of the warp core in all the walls around them. Deanna looks around herself, looking almost as though she is sniffing the air, then she turns back, decidedly not wanting to take her own healthcare as a conversation, any further.

"Captain Picard is here?"

"He was worried for you Deanna, I called he and Will to let them know you wouldn't be on bridge duty for a day or so, and he came right down to help me out."

Deanna sighs into the familiarity of him, his essence red and gold, tries her hardest not to retreat into it.

"I'm worried too Deanna. We've been discussing how to move on from here, and you need to know that a termination would be completely viable in this situation, given the reaction you've had to the pregnancy already."

Her words are slow, but it is evident to Deanna that she means her support, and never any judgement. But somehow there is some part of her that begins to seethe at the thought of how they had spoken so intimately about her behind her own back.

"Beverly, surely the Captain has no influence here, this is me we're talking about."

The doctor's eyebrows crease her apathy, her understanding, but she makes no move to apologise, and Deanna can feel only guilt.

"I'm sorry but it isn't that simple, when it comes to the safety of the Enterprise, he _is_ within his rights to have a say."

There is a silence as the Counsellor falls into her own mind, looking again for him in amongst all the chaos, hoping desperately that he himself is not a part of it. He is there, as he was moments ago, still full of apprehension, and yet somehow there is something more.

"Will, I think I want to talk to Will?"

Immediately she can sense the suspicion from Beverly, but yet there is understanding and sympathy, and she simply bows away, and out of the room, until soon she can hear Picard leave, in her mind or behind the doors she is so unsure.

But for the moment, she rests her head back down against her pillow, in the silence and noise of it all.

She opens her eyes again when she feels him near, then closes them softly as if in sleep, to shield herself from the Doctors thoughts ticking diligently - the sound of her heartbeat in the woman's head.

He crouches down in front of her face, at the side of her bed where she is curled up on her side, and his fingers come out, warm, to meet her forehead. He sweeps gently at the clammy skin there, at the mess of curls that have amassed on top of her head like a crown of thorns. She opens her eyes again, looks deep within his own from behind the snow that has been clouding her vision, and she opens her mouth to say feelings that she just cannot turn into words. Will nods, like he feels it too, only he has the power to ball them up and tell her:

"I'm so sorry for how I reacted, I know you didn't ask for this,"

And then tears start to gather in her eyes as she lets go of the strength she had held, just in-case he still couldn't understand, just in-case he should walk away again.

She cries because she is scared, and the universe has never been such a scary place as when she is alone without a tether; and now that he has returned, his hands warm with care, she is not so much frightened for herself anymore, but frightened for how she never wishes to be quite so alone again. Without the sense of comfort from a friend, one who can understand her if only a little, she thinks maybe she would be unable to go on, or at least, _unwilling_.

So she tells him this, flexes the worn out and rusted tethers of their bond and simply pushes a cart full of her fear, her terror, her uncertainty, down along the tracks in the hopes that it will reach him, that he has not closed himself to her.

He inhales sharply, closes his eyes, and for a terrible moment he can hear her heartbeat beside his own, his fingers shaking against her face. Then he relaxes as she takes it all back from him, all of the feelings pulled back along and out of his periphery, stored again in the recesses of her mind.

He reaches for her, and he reeks of sadness, of sturdy revolve.

He whispers to her. Gently, forcefully.

"You are _not_ alone,"

They stay that way for so long that she begins to feel Beverly's mind on her alone, her heartbeat still pulsing away at the back of the woman's mind, like the increasing speed will be burnt into her. And she feels as though all the physical power in her is drained, and that if she were to try and move it would not end well.

Will she feels, can see in the fatigue on her face that she is fading, and he asks before she falls entirely.

"What do we do now?"

And her eyes come open, red like they have been crying phantom tears, and somewhere behind them another heart is beating, fast and frantic and new, beautifully clean slate.

"I don't think I can do this,"

Her voice is faint, and she feels almost the slightest flicker of disappointment within him, but she opens herself up to speak again, as much terror in her tiredness.

"But I don't think I can let it go either,"

"Oh, Deanna,"

There is more disappointment within him, and so he leans across to press his lips gently to her forehead, a sweat chaste kiss that leaves her feeling cold all along her spine and the back of her neck. She shivers, and he panics, standing abruptly to go for the Doctor, concerned always by her fatigue, her weakness. There are fingers snaking through his own and he is tethered to her side, pulling him back to her, her voice the plea of a child.

"Will?"

And in his head he hears _Imzadi_ , and he could just fall at the foot of her bed and cry for the love of her. He instead follows the arm towards her on the bed, then slinks in behind her, drawing that hand towards her centre and cradling her close to him.

Though he is not tired, he shuts his eyes, and tries instead to think only of peace, and tranquillity, for her sake more than his own.

* * *

Will summons Beverly, when it's clear that she isn't waking up to his rousings, and goddamn him for letting them drift apart so far that he cannot know how she is anymore.

And the Doctor just smiles sadly with a tricorder in her hand, telling him Deanna's okay now, and her vitals have evened out, and all she needs now is to sleep and feel strong again, so that they can make a decision together. She tells him also to stay with her, to make sure she eats more than she has been, to keep her in the world and not retreated within her own mind.

So the two of them lie still together, and he's sure the Captain will understand when he does not report for duty, he's sure Beverly will have explained this to him.

The nighttime is peaceful until it is not, and she seems to slip into another level of sleep, where she keeps her mind awake with dreaming awful things, and wonderful things. Her arms pull him closer, but also push him away, and her legs twitch as though she is kicking, running, moving forwards on ground that neither can see.

When she wakes, it is the morning of a new day, and she can feel that Will has finally fallen asleep behind her where she is still curled up, waking slowly to the the alarm she never had the thought to cancel.

She flexes out her legs and splays her toes out, feeling all the music of a thousand waking minds humming into existence, vibrating in her head like a swarm of bees, yet she isn't sure she minds so much, only to feel for a moment that she isn't alone.

And so it is that she recalls the day before, and feels the smallest hum deep inside herself before understanding the feelings of fatigue that have now gone from her. She thinks to the hypospray against her neck, and she must thank Beverly for whatever the hell was in it.

She moves away from Will's embrace, to test the strength she feels anew in her legs, that they will hold her up as they hadn't before. Her feet pad against the cold floor, sluggishly over to the bathroom, all of a sudden desperate to go, and also peel herself out of the sweats she had slept in.

So it is that Will finds her with a mug of Valerian Root Tea, wearing a baggy hoodie and starfleet track pants, everything too large and long for her small frame; she is smiling lightly at the look on his face.

He is rubbing at those blue eyes of his, and he blinks several times against the light of the Nebula they are passing by. And she blinks back at him, through the steam of her tea, neither one of them quite knowing what to say to make this better, to communicate what they both are feeling.

There is something within him that wants to tell her, tell her he's dreaming of something other than this drama, and watching her now he wonders if maybe he could get used to the domesticity of it all. That is, until he takes a few steps closer to her and sees that her eyes, though they are deep and black, seem to be framed by these half moons of shadow, heavy with all the dreams she cannot shake.

"How long have you been up?"

He can see her confusion as she turns to the chronometer, then back up at him.

"Maybe a half hour, I'm sorry for worrying you,"

She has that knowing gleam to her, and he catches himself, sits opposite her at the table and tries to put a reign on all the emotions bubbling within him. He is not very good at it.

"I'm worried that you haven't been eating enough lately, Beverly said something about needing extra nutrition?"

He pauses for a brief, awkward moment, knowing that he wasn't really asking anything at all.

"And…it isn't healthy for the baby…to not eat, that is."

A sudden spike of jealousy within him, and in her weakness she has to try hard not to wince, as though a lance has been taken to her heart, at the memory of a night between them months ago lingering in his mind. Will blushes slightly, knowing she's seen him, and so he dwells in the thought of these casual encounters over the last year, frantic and desperate moments of passion between them.

She's sure he's remembering it differently to her, the greedy obsession of a Betazoid to share openly in the desires of another, and without him she may have gone insane.

And then, in a second, the thought is gone, and she can hear music playing in his mind, a slow and repeating piece of jazz music, which feels familiar only because it is to him. Instead, in her mind, it is strangled by the thoughts of others that compete, to the point that only the occasional note will permeate her awareness.

"So, have you eaten?"

Worry again, murky and brown.

"No, Will, I have not even finished my tea yet,"

For some reason, she is filled with a sense of irritation at his questions, and she is almost certain he feels it too, though she isn't sure if it is her own, or perhaps somebody else's.

Smoothly, he bypasess this.

"Well then, what can I get you?"

He grins, lopsided and charming, though there is something forced about it, and so she smiles softly back, thinks for a moment. She can smell warm pancakes, if only for a split second, and hears the exclamation of a child echoing without her.

She sighs, the sensation becoming confused.

"I suppose pancakes would be good?"

Her tongue is trapped behind her teeth, trying so hard not to tell him to make them how he used to, wanting to spare them both the memory of a more pleasant time, years ago.

With a pang in her heart like the tip of a spear, he has remembered it anyway.

Will's eyes seem glazed over when he returns from the replicator, two dishes in his hands, and she wants more than anything to know him, wants to scream at him for letting go of her when she could never let go of him.

They eat, in silence, and she is not hungry anymore.

Conversation picks up from the point of empty plates, but every word said is slow, low, and tentative. Questions of a right to life, of violations, of _breeding_ ; and Deanna tries so hard not to think of herself as an experiment, an _instrument_ , but somehow the feeling of intrusion aches like the swell of a wave within her.

"Would you stop thinking of me that way?!"

Her exclamation is sudden, caught between his musings on termination, and artificial incubation. He quiets immediately, and in the same beat a rush of crimson engulfs her face, even her eyes seem to become red within pools of black.

"Deanna?"

Will seems to think she is becoming hysterical, and maybe he should call Doctor Crusher, and she groans in such a way that she could be anybody but herself.

"Why can't you see this is not the way I feel? Must you keep _insisting_ I am some fragile thing that has been _violated_ , that needs to be _sheltered_?"

He withdraws from the table in shock, leans back in his seat almost defensively, as though he is trying to pull away from her reach.

"Deanna, I never said anything to imply-"

"But you continue to _think_ it!"

Her intrusion is so abrupt, so out of character in the fist she has balled against the tabletop.

Will's face falls into a frown, a crease set deeply in his brow as he turns inwards, and at once he is just a man in a uniform, wearing a blank expression, full of fear and prejudice as anyone is.

There is silence as Deanna calms, and tries not to listen to himself examine everything once more, picking apart each of his stray thoughts. And once again he is wearing that sorry expression, that anybody with half a heart might think is pity, but inside himself, she knows it is not.

"Oh, Deanna,"

And she's heard that voice before too, last night at the sight of her only half a woman.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I forgot.."

Words fail him, and he is filled with remorse, and she feels his forgetting in each one of her bones, cutting so deeply that she is sorrowful for a time when he could never have forgotten.

And how can one be so young yet regret so much?

"I think I'm keeping it Will, I think I might,"

She says now, resolute yet uncertain, a terrible dichotomy of decision and indecision. His face falls.

"But there's so much we don't know - I don't want to lose you to something like this Dee,"

She feels his plea in every inflection of his voice, his desperation, and tries not to let it wrap too tightly around her heart.

"And I told you, I don't think I can do this. I still don't Will, but I owe it to the parts of myself in this child to try."

"Deanna?"

There's confusion welling in his eyes, and if he doesn't blink soon it may form a sadness he won't be able to deny.

"Don't you think I'm scared too? Something has happened to me which I cannot explain, and nor can any number of medical professionals - I don't want to be alone with this. I wish I was somebody else, and I wish desperately that I didn't need you, but I still do,"

Her own eyes begin to cloud over with tears, and he seems to spin her words into a knot in his mind, round and round until he too is resolute.

"I'm here then, one hundred percent. You don't have to be alone, you don't have to face this alone, I'll be here whatever,"

Will pauses passionately, takes a brief glance at her whole body, drinking in the sight of her, just a girl in clothes too large and too comfortable to be anything other than loved.

"Whatever happens Imzadi, I am right here,"

Her heart skips at the word, and the feeling of a bird singing within her in response, calling in such a way that caged animals shouldn't be able to. Her heart is singing, and though her eyes shine with tears, there is a profound joy, morose and unsuspecting, rising within her.

It takes only a matter of hours for her to begin protesting her confinement, demanding that she be allowed to see patients, that Beverly will _agree_. Will is having none of it, but he is expected on duty too, if only for what is left of the afternoon on Alpha shift, at the Captain's request, and so it is a losing battle.

When he returns to check on her after dressing in his own quarters, she is standing neatly in the doorway to great him, her own uniform crisp and pristine against her frame.

He would care if she looked any better, screw her for being so _fine_ , for being as tricky as a swan.

"I know what you're thinking,"

She begins, only a half metaphor,

"But I will be fine, I believe Beverly would not be so engrossed in her own work if she was worried I may keel over any second. And besides,"

She reaches two fingers up, sweetly, her eyes taking on the quality of a child's, her youth so evident in that one moment.

"I have only two patients this evening, a bereavement and a plasma-phobe. You would have to physically restrain me to make me cancel on them a second time."

Deanna's bottom lip kicks out in a pout that matches the expression in her eyes, and damn her for being 24 years old, for being a _child_.

He lets her past without arguing back, because he never could say no to her, never do much _but_ say no.


	3. Second Thought

"Counselor Troi?"

She hears Alyssa's voice before she really see's the woman appear, the confusion of an early morning colouring her voice.

Deanna smiles gracefully to her, and it _is_ abominably early, too early really for getting out of bed, yet here they all are, uniformed and setting up the Sickbay for the day shift. It's remarkable to see the moving parts of the ship in such an unpolished way, everybody yawning their fatigue and still working to straighten out their collar pips.

She herself is straighter than she's ever been, and maybe she's over compensating for being awake so early, trying to make it seem as though there's really nothing wrong at all, and she's just here for a checkup or an early breakfast.

That would be easier to believe if the rumours hadn't already started.

"Good morning Alyssa,"

She manages to say warmly, moving past her with as much speed as she can manage without being too obvious in her desire to not linger. The nurse is a nice enough woman - well suited to her career - but she has just as much fear in her as anybody else; when she thinks of what has happened, it is clear that there is more than simple discomfort towards her.

Beverly is inside a private room at the back of the Sickbay, and she can feel that the woman is anticipating her arrival, something not quite like excitement brewing within her. The screened door opens automatically for her, and Crusher turns almost immediately away from the panel she had been calibrating; it's possible to see that there are a number of specialist instruments set up around the room.

"Deanna, you're a little early,"

And she wonders when _Counselor_ stopped being personal enough.

"Sit down, sit down!"

Beverly exclaims, one arm extended towards the lowered biobed against the wall, trying to rush with whatever it is she's doing.

"I was hoping to avoid the command shift changes,"

Deanna says, following the extension of her lowering arm.

"The rumours are already becoming outrageous,"

She pushes herself up and onto the surface of the bed, letting her legs swing slightly beneath her, and Beverly turns from her work to regard her with an expression of sympathy.

"I'm sorry about that, I can promise nothing is coming from my staff though, their discretion is one of the things that makes them so good,"

It is not that easy to be soothed, and so Deanna just smiles sadly in response as silence follows them again.

There is not much to say that isn't weighted heavily with issues she'd rather save for a few moments more solitude.

A few moments of strained silence follow, until Beverly is wheeling over to the edge of the bed, sitting on a stool and dragging with her an equipment stand.

The sight is a little daunting.

"I'm sorry to bring this up straight away,"

She begins delicately.

"But did Commander Riker help you come to a decision,"

Deanna does not respond, does not even look her in the eye.

"I wouldn't push you, it's just that -"

There is an uncomfortable pause.

"Well, I need to write up a report for Starfleet Medical,"

The Doctor looks down at her hands in shame, but there really is no need for it, and whatever silence she has been maintaining, Deanna chooses now to break it.

"Beverly,"

She chides.

"That is your job, it is not for me to make that any harder for you to do,"

Their eyes meet, and there is sympathy now in her instead, for having put so many of the people she cares about in positions they do not deserve.

"Although, if I may do so anyway,"

A beat, cautious and trepid.

"I do not have it in me to terminate this pregnancy,"

Beverly sighs lowly.

"I don't know what that means for me or my future, but whatever else I may sense of this life, there is _innocence_ ,"

She shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath, tries to live in that feeling however hard to find it may be.

"I cannot justify _extinguishing_ innocence,"

A brief wave of terror surges in the Doctor, maybe not the decision she had wanted, or would have chosen for herself, but one she had expected nonetheless.

In this situation, she's not so sure she'd be so forgiving herself, and though she hasn't pushed Deanna on the issue at all, if it had happened to her instead, then she would call it _rape_.

And she's almost certain she couldn't be _that_ forgiving.

It had been difficult enough to sit in on the staff meeting and listen to her have to explain what had happened to a room full of colleagues, to have to describe rape to them and have them completely misunderstand what that meant.

It had been _painful_.

"Stop, please,"

Deanna utters, and she is shocked out of her thoughts.

"I have heard it all from Will already,"

She is smiling, and it means nothing at all.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

Beverly gives up on trying to apologise for something she can't control for an empaths sake, her brain too unsophisticated to even try it.

" _I'm sorry_ ,"

Neither one says anything at all, and she tries not to fill this silence with more thoughts much the same. Her fingers play with a hypospray in her lap, uncharacteristically at a loss.

"Beverly,"

Deanna says finally, calling her attention up to where she sits.

"I'm having a _baby_ ,"

The girl's voice is not shaking, and she maybe would sound resolute if it weren't so full of trepidation, eyes creased in such a way that she could even be asking a question.

Beverly really see's no other way, there is not much else she can do to change what has happened, and if this is the best outcome, then there are worse things to have than a _baby_.

"I guess we're having a baby,"

* * *

The Captain appears in the doorway to her office, late into the afternoon, blocking out the light that spills in with the squared frame of his shoulders. He is smiling, but it does not appear joyful.

"Jean-Luc!"

Her exclamation is familiar, and warm, her eyes removed immediately from the Monitor she had been focused on,

"Beverly, I was hoping we might talk?"

He looks concerned, and she motions him to sit at the seat opposite her, where she herself sits at the desk in her large, comfortable chair.

Doors puff behind him, and he moves to take the seat.

Several moments of silence follow, thoughtful and pensive.

When he is settled, his hands folded tightly in a clasp on is lap, he looks to her and tries to think of the words he had rehearsed, all of a sudden perhaps not so confident as he appears.

"Captain? Is there something wrong?"

Picard tries to wave away her concern, only he cannot unclasp his hands from their wringing, and so he simply shakes his head, and it is enough to dissuade her.

"I'm here about Deanna, I have concerns,"

"Oh?"

It is unusual that he calls her by name, only having known her for a year, though the care he is fostering for her is evident in the way his voice softens slightly when he speaks of her.

"She came to see me earlier today about the child, and now I find myself wondering if I should be looking to replace her, or reasign her to a planetary posting - given her decision?"

Beverly begins to laugh, but the genuine curiosity to him halts her, and she too begins to think in kind.

"Why would you do that?"

"Well, given the lack of evidence to suggest her condition is anything other than _alien_ , I am inclined to consider the concerns of Mr Worf, and prioritise the safety of this vessel and the families aboard."

She frowns, the conflict in him clear to even her.

"The child is Humanoid, Jean-Luc, we only have to wait a few more days before an amniocentesis can be conducted - just because it's inception appears _alien_ , that doesn't mean the foetus is. What danger can that possibly pose?"

"I'm not sure-"

He pauses, realises that he perhaps is coming from the wrong angle.

"But even for her own sake, ought she not be in a more stable environment, where she can be properly monitored and cared for should the situation become - dangerous?"

Beverly raises her eyebrows at him, and sits further back in her seat again, her arms crossing her chest defensively.

"Either you're insulting my capabilities, _Sir_ , or you're suggesting she be subject to scientific research? Frankly I'm not sure which is worse."

"No!"

Immediately he sits forward with indignance, closing the distance between them, confusing his words so uncharacteristically as he speaks.

"You know me Beverly, and that is the last I believe- furthest from my mind… I'm just, simply, worried for her, Deanna, I don't want to fail her, or be an obstacle - if she needs something more than we have, to be well, or comfortable...I just, I'm trying…"

Frustration at his own incompetence cuts him off, and she finishes for him.

"You don't want to see her hurting, like you have before."

There is silence, deep and perhaps not even meaningful, but he nods his head anyway, worried that all of a sudden he will be unable to breathe.

"I know that you're trying to protect her, but think about it, where are the people that she cares for, the people she needs support from?"

His hands finally unclasp to gesture helplessly, like a child, to the space around him: the ship.

"Okay, and where is her least favorite place to be?"

Picard frowns, shrugs, then at the look in her eyes, the answer comes to him, his words low and rather more to himself than her.

"Sickaby…"

"Right, so leaving her at a medical facility - a giant sickbay, essentially - full of pained, hurting and conflicted individuals, seperate from her family, would be counterproductive, yes?"

The captain lets out a slight chuckle, dry and horribly unfunny, yet she smiles over at him sympathetically, sharing a moment of utter despair, disguised only by the sound of terrible humour.

"You're right, as always,"

He takes a deep breath.

"She's just too young for this Beverly, I want to be able to do something for her, to make it better, it's my duty as Captain."

"I believe you've done something already, something I'm sure she greatly appreciates."

He frowns again, a constant state of confusion.

"How's that?"

"You're standing by her decisions, Jean-Luc, letting her work this through in her own way. You could have left her at a starbase, ordered the experimentation or incubation of her foetus, even its termination, but you didn't, and you stood by her in that meeting when she told you it was her decision to make."

Beverly reaches across the desk to clasp the palm of her hand over the knuckles of his closed fist, at the centre of the table.

"I believe that is all she may have needed."

* * *

She's on her way out of Sickbay for the third time in as many days, since the episode in her quarters, when she hears them - the voices. And ordinarily it wouldn't bother her, so many minds projecting directly onto her so openly, so knowingly, but now is different. The corridor is empty, but she can hear them as she walks.

 _Poor counselor_

 _It's inhuman_

 _Basically rape_

 _Probably kill her_

Her strength is sapped in trying not to listen in, leaving the nurses thoughts behind her as she moves as swiftly as this continued fatigue will allow, into a turbolift that will pull her away from their minds just far enough that they may become only whispers.

She hears the ensigns before she sees them, calling the turbolift, each side of a conversation echoing within them: the warp core, a poker game, the opening 'lift doors.

Like bullets hitting her chest, they are suddenly silent filing in beside her, thinking a conversation they will likely have later.

 _Such a shame_

 _Picard is a fool_

 _Needs supervising_

 _Alien threat_

 _Will file a complaint with command_

 _Riker must be whipped_

 _Wonder if she'll die_

 _Maybe the kid'll have four-_

They leave, and she has to take a deep breath, steel herself against the bulkhead wall as she is moving upwards again. And damn her for being too weak to temper her strength, too ignorant to think it would be a problem.

Her mind reaches elsewhere for only a moment, seeks those oblivious aboard: the lustful, the dutiful, the proud, the strong. She sighs into the feeling of his strength, uses it as a shield around herself, forging her own body into something made from iron, tears, and the emotions she has spirited from others.

Empty corridors open out before her, wonderfully, mercifully so, and she follows the tether to him, winding left and right until his mind is no longer singled out against the dozens beside him; Deanna bites into the side of a fingernail, maybe not so strong after all.

Ten Forward is busy for a lunch-time, whole groups of crewman from each department huddled into tables with half eaten plates and empty glasses before them, the whole place in shades of blue, red and gold.

She tries to pretend the sudden hush is not because of her, and moves more swiftly than usual through the space, feeling Guinan's eyes following her steps against the deck.

Will is there, in the same spot as they always have met in, more private, more secluded, yet with a spectacular view of the expansive stars beyond the forward portal.

He is smiling his welcome, and in a gesture she does not fully understand, but has grown accustomed to this past year, he stands as she approaches, the chair already pulled out at an angle for her to sit down.

She tries her hardest not to anticipate conversation, but she finds herself already with an answer when he speaks.

"How was your appointment with Beverly?"

Voice only slightly raised above the resumed noise of the crowd, she responds.

"It was okay actually, she is beginning to piece together some sort of timeline of events, from the incident in my quarters to now. She hopes this will lead her to a more accurate due date than she is working with at the moment."

"And you?"

He smiles again, endeared only a little by her daming ability to detach herself from the gravity of it all.

"Oh, yes, um…"

There is a dimple at the centre of her forehead as she thinks, tries to remember what she had been absent for.

"Well, apparently my vitals are causing her some concern, but not so much that she wishes to confine me to her care. She suggested I try to sleep and eat more, to attempt to make up for the deficits."

A dainty hand reaches for the glass of plum juice Will had ordered for her when he arrived; she takes a sip then continues in further hushed tones.

"Beverly seems to think it beneficial that I not be completely reliant on excessive artificial supplementation, though I cannot fathom why,"

All of sudden, the irritation she had been concealing shows its ugly face, so briefly, yet loathsome and fearsome, and she struggles to subdue it once more.

Will laughs lightly in response, alarmed by her borderline petulance.

"Well I'd guess she trying to make this as normal for you as possible,"

He seems to have thought this through some himself, and it irks her that he finds this all so - beguiling?

"Nothing about this is _normal_ , Will."

Deanna looks down into the deep purple patterns of her swirling drink, her voice just softer than a hiss.

"I do not feel _normal_!"

Will reaches a hand under the table to squeeze her knee reassuringly, but a surge of worry that burns hotter and faster than fire within him prevents her from feeling the comfort there.

"Have you spoken to Beverly about it?"

He is mistaken, and she cannot even look up for the shame of speaking aloud.

"Not like that Will, this whole thing isn't _normal_ , can't you see that everyone is looking at me?"

Will is confused again - always confused - and he takes a glance around the room, sees eyes amongst the crowd flitting away when they notice he has seen them.

His fists gather together, and he turns to face back at her, head still bent over her glass.

"How could you - ?"

He is cut off by her penetrating stare as she forces her eyes up to affix to his own, watering, perhaps not as tears, but with the strain of something else.

"Oh…"

The realisation rails into him like a speeding cargo transport, and all at once the place seems to become much louder than it really is, a sea of voices, and in the middle of it all, hers.

"Perhaps, we can meet for lunch in my quarters instead, for a little while, at least until the gossip stops?"

She smiles, but it is not joyful, and it is not sweet, instead it is just there to occupy the sorry tilt of her head, and the bitterness of recollection.

"This just - it's too much like school again, everyone one way and me another,"

Deanna swallows hard around a lump in her throat,

" _Defective_."

His face too darkens suddenly, until he stands, resolved, his hand extended into her vision, pulling her out of whatever memory she was caught in.

"We're leaving."

She stands with him, perhaps too caught up to care that she still holds onto his hand as they walk, or that Will is throwing daggers at all the gazes that follow them.

He leads her, all of a sudden dependant, the extra distance to her own quarters, where they are situated on the other side of the ship, specially isolated by her own request, after those first few nights aboard, feeling the dreams of others within her own. It seems no time at all before they arrive at the unoccupied section of this ship, rows upon rows of guest quarters, unused for the majority of their journey. And in the centre, a plaque with her name on, in small and unassuming lettering, much like her, beside the door access panel.

He inputs his own override codes, not knowing the actual sequence, regretfully, and guides her into the darkness, the merciful silence within.

* * *

There is the terrible sound of a screeching bird echoing between the mountains around her, somewhere in the trees where a chick has fallen from its nest, and the mother is mourning its loss, screaming, screeching, some kind of harrowing sound.

But then, finally, the roaring of the waterfall opposite her is louder than anything else, and she cannot hear a single lone thing at all.

She looks down, and there are sharp blades of grass peeking up from between all her toes, long and a rich shade of green, deep and emerald and shining with the fresh water spray that covers all the valley like a fine dew.

She walks forward, and catches a chill in her nightgown as the breeze dips down in a swell of cool air, caught where the sun is unable to warm her.

She reaches the water's edge, and finds at the banks of the pooling water, a squawking baby bird. It's feathers are daggers in her hands, but still she picks it up, small and screaming for something she cannot provide. Soon, it is wet, the tears of its pain dripping off the tip of her nose, where she has bent her head over, marvelling at the youth of the creature.

And then all of a sudden the bird has vanished, and her hands are filled instead by a pool of her own tears, but the water is slowly boiling, bubbling until it is so searing that she has to unclasp her hands, let it fall against her bare feet, then flow down into the lake.

She wants to kneel down by the waterside, and there is a pain rising in her head, the bird gone but still crying, the water still rushing down into a foam on the water surface.

She hits her knees, but the ground is no longer there, and she instead is at the very centre of the lake, holding the palms of her hands up against her face, shielding herself from the spraying water.

When her hands move away, they are dripping thick and red and hot with blood, and she begins to swipe more frantically at her face, bleeding as if from nowhere, that bird still screaming louder and louder.

Around her, the water is slowly becoming red too, and she is bleeding into it, it is bleeding into her.

The birds are still screaming.

Her world smells like copper, and somewhere far off above her in the mountains, there is a man's voice, calling, yelling, and if only she could hear.

Suddenly, the rock she has been kneeling on slips beneath her, and she is drowning with such immediacy that there is no chance to kick out her arms, her legs, to flail, to fight.

The screaming continues around her at such a pitch that even as she breathes in the blood around her, sucks in gulps of copper and lead, the sound is present around her still.

She is swallowed by blood, and water, and the screaming of new life, and she wakes, as though it all was terribly real.

* * *

She's crying, and he cannot fathom why, or how he can hear her, he knows only that he woke to her voice, sweating to the beat of _i need you i need you i need you_ within his mind. It made him nauseous at first, when he stood, unable to shield himself from her.

He had wanted to beam straight to her, but forgot somehow, so he tapped his comm badge, and listened to the silence on her end.

At some point, he gets through to Beverly.

"Is Deanna with you?"

He does not even have the ability to introduce himself, in all the confusion of 3am, and in her response, the alarm is evident.

"Will? Is that you, is something wrong?"

"I think something's happened to Deanna, is she with you or not?"

He is pulling on a pair of pants and hopping closer to his door when she responds, his ears barely able to hear.

"No she isn't, what's going on?"

Will grasps his comm badge and stands at the exit to his quarters, by the wall panel, trying to make sense of all the glaring lights.

"I'm not sure yet, I'll let you know, Riker out."

His shortness startles even him, but soon enough he is rematerializing in Deanna's quarters, where they are dark and glaring so lightly in shades of pink and gold.

Making his way to where he hears her breath, he is readying himself to swear that if even one hair on her head is harmed, then he will walk into war to avenge her.

He continues to fumble through the darkness to find her, not thinking to just turn on the lights, and instead following the sound of deep breathing, unsteady but forced. He comes upon her in the clearing of her room, the colour of the nebula beyond her viewport still, lighting one side of her face, and all the rest of her shrouded in nothing. As he goes to speak, he finds his voice gone, and somehow ends up kneeling at the foot of her bed, praying some ancient mantra that she can be saved, that she won't be taken from him.

And she cannot breathe, yet she is trying to say his name, frantically almost, through a meditation that has ceased to work; she slumps over the edge of her bed to grasp onto him.

Through a series of confused and confusing movements she has curled into his lap on the floor, so much smaller than him, their backs to the end of the bed, his flannel pants soft against her skin where she is exposed, sweating through that pale pink nightgown.

Deanna shies into him, buries her neck like a child into his chest, and he is bewildered, so indulged by her usual confidence that he is drowning now, out of the ocean of her strength.

"Imzadi?"

His voice returned, he calls to her, seeks to reach the woman he thinks perhaps he doesn't know at all, and at the sound she faces into him, up and through his eyes.

"I was drowning,"

Lungs beneath her chest that expand and contract the thumping beat of a hummingbird heart, undertake to form words that, though heartbreaking, are articulated so slowly and carefully that they can be nothing more than truth.

And in his haste and confusion, Will looks around the room, where it is dark, wonders if there are waterfalls cowering in the shadows, wonders if they will drown him too.

"A dream?"

His own voice shakes and he cannot fathom why he too is so shaken, so deeply feeling that he hopes it will not last forever. A noise escapes her, frustration, and terror still, as though he is close, but not yet there; his arms around her but not truly understanding her plight.

"A nightmare."

His clarification has her nodding her head against him, young and small as she tries to further curl herself atop him, wound like a child in his lap.

They sit unmoving for many moments more, before he notices that the rumbling in his chest is her voice, physically poured into him through her tears, yet not through his mind, nothing since she first called to him.

Taking her shoulders, clammy and jutting, he pushes her back to look into her eyes, to pull her words out of his chest and know her.

"I can't do this, I can't do it, I'm not going to make it…"

She looks at him with desperation he has never before known, and he cannot even recognise it on her face until he sees the shining of her eyes, and she speaks again.

"I think this is going to kill me,"

Her sincerity burns into him, and he is itching now to reach for his comm badge, to call Beverly, to call somebody, anybody who might be able to offer her something he cannot. But she is already falling back into him, their gaze broken, her body cold now and shivering against him, simply melting now into his chest, her words no longer aloud.

He can almost feel her heartbeat within himself, fast and frantic like a hummingbirds, but so damming it feels as though a kick drum is being beaten in his very bones.

He wonders if she's doing it on purpose.

And it takes so many more minutes before she is completely still, maybe not as comforting as having the movement of her there, thinking she may only be dead. Her body is limp when he lifts her back into her bed, and tucks her up beneath the top-most covers with care, then once again, for the second time in the past week, he finds himself holding her from behind.

They are as twinned lambs together, perfectly mirrored to the body of the other, in all the sleeping patterns of the night.

Deanna's fatigue is infectious, and he lets himself be swallowed by it, joining her wherever she has gone.

A baby bird is screeching, but he cannot see anything at all, his surroundings completely black. And he can hear the rushing of water on water, like a tumbling waterfall, though he is not sure. A woman is calling out, and he would know that voice anywhere, even if he cannot feel her near to him. There is a strong wind blowing in his face, but he cannot see when he raises his hands and it is as though he has no body at all. The wind smells of blood, iron and wine, and he's sure that if this were any world he was a part of, then it would be coloured in all the shades of red.

And suddenly, like the swell of a wave, he feels the need to yell for her, in all the surrealty, sure that wherever he is, it belongs to her.

So as he shouts, the echoes return, and his eyes slowly begin again to reoccur to him anew, and he opens them, the light pours within him like water.


	4. Truth and Consequence

She is still in his arms, but again she is hot and sweating, writhing though still asleep, trapped somewhere he maybe was supposed to pull her from but could not. The lighting in her quarters has risen to mimic the early hours of daylight, and he props himself up on his left arm, reaches around his other to stroke against her cheek with the back of his large index finger.

"Deanna, you're dreaming again, come back to me,"

She moans lightly, like the weak attempt of a cry, and his voice is hoarse with sleep, like gravel on glass.

"Come on now Dea, it's time to wake up now,"

She whines, the sound accompanying her stretching limbs as she blinks open her eyes, bleary and confused.

"Will?"

Her voice is no more than a whisper, and he continues to soothe the clammy skin at her cheek, his fingers cool and soft. She rolls slowly over in his arms, and he tries to remember where he was a week ago, and why he wasn't right here, why it's taken him this crazy _thing_ to finally be there for her. Deanna's opening, blinking eyes are so wide, and they are wholly dilated as they always were in the morning, that time they were never apart.

"That's me,"

He grins at her, craning to look into her face, and she smiles lazily back, like she almost cannot remember why she was woken, she simply smiles for the joy of having him near.

"You were having a bad dream, there was water?"

Alarm lights her up and she scrambles to face him completely, turning to her other side and pushing herself back from him by small hands she has pressed to his chest.

"I didn't mean to do that, I… I was not sure I could,"

She seems to regard her own actions with awe, but also with shock that she didn't stop herself, that she dragged him down with her.

"Hey, hey Dea, don't be like that, it's okay I'm not mad,"

Again, the pad of his thumb reaches over to swipe at the apple of her cheek, and she is flushed with the shame - he soothes her in as much as he can, tries not to fill himself with too much apathy.

"I do not know why it was so scary, the imagery was -"

"Deanna, you were drowning, please just don't start counseling yourself, and let me?"

Her eyes shut over again, then open slowly as she breathes in all the air around her, pupils contracting back into their usual orbs of obsidian.

Will's hand stops it's movements and instead snakes into her hair, fingers working through a curl that falls away from a mess of sleeping knots at her crown, before he leans into her to kiss lightly against her forehead.

He smells strongly of pine needles and smoke, inexplicably so, and his morning stubble scratches against her face where he is near. And in some confused moment the smell is not comforting, and too strong for her sense, and it is all she has to roll over away from him, a hand covering her mouth.

She scrambles out of his arms in one single second, and rushes away to the open doors of the bathroom, the fabric of her nightgown falling down back below her knees. It takes him too long to react to her, and he can hear her retching before his own feet have hit the floor, and his urgency has him tripping over his pajama pants towards her.

She is slumped over the toilet bowl, and his arms reach around her from behind, where he joins her on the floor, cradling her shaking body, small and bucking with a violent force. The smell is strong and sour, and largely of bile as her stomach was so achingly empty; he tries hard not to turn his nose up, his own stomach hard like steel.

He picks her up without word, when she is empty and finished with her spluttering, cradling her into him as he had done all that time ago, when that insanity had swept the Enterprise. She is clammy, and her eyes struggle to focus on his face, the ceiling up and beyond his head gliding above her; her arms scramble to cling around his neck as though it is routine.

She expects that he is taking her back to bed, and so she buries her head in his cotton chest and tries not to breathe in any other smell than the warmth of his own body, tries to ignore the feelings that are not her own.

Will walks with her gently, and cannot take his hands away from around her for even a second, hopes there is strength enough in her arms to hang onto him, around his neck and grasping at each other. He walks her all the way to Sickbay without hearing a single protest, finally giving in to that desire in him to take her to Beverly, anytime she so much as coughs.

It's still early, he thinks maybe that it must be almost 0700 hours when he walks through the doors, but he knows that Beverly likes to start and leave her work early, a morning lark rather than a night owl. Deanna can sense it, he's sure, because she groans and digs her nails in ever so slightly to the back of his neck, leaving small indentations of half moons, but not drawing blood.

"Deanna, you're almost an hour ear-"

Beverly is walking out of her office holding a whole pile of data padds full of research from Betazed, from Starfleet Medical, from her own work years ago, thinking that the noise she hears in main sickbay is the entrance of the counselor, likely slipping in before the rest of the crew wakes.

"-ly"

Her voice drops off when she looks up, meets directly with Will Rikers bloodshot eyes, on a level that Deanna's eyes are not, and the woman is resting bridal style in his arms, the both of them in pajamas that together make them seem as though they belong as a pair.

A passing orderly has the data padds thrust into his hands as Crusher rushes towards them, her brain turning in 50 different directions as she motions Will to carry Deanna into the private room adjacent to her office, all the lights still down and the room cool and calm.

He places her down gently, and her arms pull away into her centre, unclasping from around his neck and receding around her own body, curling in on herself atop the biobed. The contact activates all the monitors around her, and she groans as they spring into life with terrible volume, the heart rate in particular screeching as the birds had done, angry at her body for not conforming to its baseline. Beverly comes at her wordlessly with a tricorder, more noise and more flashing lights, and the larger panels of LEDs around the room warm into a daylight glow, now that there are people there, Will with his back against the wall, dazed and keeping himself from being an intrusion.

Beverly moves like a force of nature, a great whipped up motion of air, or fire by the flow of her own russet hair. Either way, she is fast, and she works without calling any other members of her staff, needing no more people in the room with a young and ailing empath.

Deanna is grateful, she really is, only a door has never been much of an obstacle between minds, and her entrance was far from subtle; there are concerns of course, but she is too focused on trying to hold her breath against the nausea to really live in them. And the smell of sterilisation is strong, stronger than Will's pinewood, or the must of his sleeping skin, or the shampoo she uses in her own hair, but there is nothing left to throw up.

"She's dehydrated, Will, could you bring me some water?"

Deanna can hear her talk, and realises that her eyes are squeezed tight shut to stop the room spinning, so she opens one just a crack, reaches her hand out to the Doctor's tilting body.

"Beverly, the room...is spinning."

She is out of breath somehow as she speaks, and Beverly is caught up by a hand that is wound around her wrist, small but grasping fingers that are holding on so tightly to her; she has to wonder where that strength is coming from.

Deanna takes her hand away and back into her centre as the Doctor has to move to the other side of the room where a hypospray kit lies, and her actions are fast and inscrutable, combining and reducing, reappearing again with some concoction that is cool against her neck.

It reminds her of two nights ago, the same feeling of going limp and numb, only not so strong, and suddenly she finds it not so necessary to hold her breath, to have her arms around her stomach with such desperation; the nausea is not gone, but it is bearable.

Will's return is not calm, but he brings with him a large glass of water, and a straw, and he is not walking on a tipped ceiling, his feet are placed mercifully upright. Beverly nods at him, and he moves in to crouch by her head, where she is curled on her side on the biobed, bringing the glass up and offering her the straw against her lips. He holds it steady as she sucks at the cool water, his other hand pushing the hair away from her forehead, slowly and with loving care.

The palm of his hand is warm, but her forehead is hot, and so he continues to smooth over the skin whilst she drinks, looking into where her eyes are nearly shut.

When she stops, he takes the straw from her cracked lips and then leaves the glass on the floor beneath the bed, not moving from her side.

"How do you feel?"

He murmurs so softly that, across the room, Beverly cannot hear, and he is still stroking her forehead gently, her eyes open and large - waking saucers.

"Better,"

"Mmmmhmm?"

He nods with her, still crouched, his hair under the morning lights just now noticeably mussed, and sticking up at so many odd angles.

The call he made to her in the middle of the night is just now beginning to make sense to Beverly.

"It's morning sickness,"

Will quiets his comforting murmurs to Deanna, and the movement of his hand stops as he throws an incredulous glare over his shoulder, his eyes piercing the doctor's own.

"Morning sickness? Isn't that supposed to be...well, not like this?"

Beverly sighs, tricorder in hand and beeping harshly again, her shape coming closer to him to stand almost at his back, looking over both him and Deanna.

"Usually it's a relatively safe and normal part of pregnancy, in humans, and for Betazoids it's a little more intense, but this is of a scale such as the condition Hyperemesis Gravidarum, likely due to the acceleration of the pregnancy."

"How long-"

After all this time, Deanna's breaking voice is gravelled and yet still soft and quiet.

She tries again.

"How long will it last?"

"I really couldn't say,"

More typing at a tricorder, and a pause that is not long, but still hangs with impatience in the air.

"I'd guess at a week, maybe a little longer, for Betazoids the sickness lasts for only the first Quart so it might be sooner, I'm honestly not sure."

Deanna nods and then fixes her eyes back to Will, who has been watching her all along, tries to get lost in whatever it is she finds there, even if it is not the love they once shared, or the friendship they could gain over time, even if it is something old and worn out and confused.

"I can give you your supplements while you're here, and I'd like if you could stay in for the morning at least, just so I can keep an eye on you,"

The woman does not respond, and Beverly takes the opportunity of her agreeable silence to push further.

"And - I'm not comfortable with you living alone at the moment, how would you feel if I assigned a member of my staff to stay in your quarters for a few weeks?"

"I'll do it."

Finally, Will's eyes tear away from Deanna's own, and his response is so sudden, eager and charged with some energy she doesn't recognise. Her eyebrows raise in apprehension.

"Commander Riker?"

He turns his face towards her, but a hand still remains on Deanna's forehead above where her eyes have slowly begun to drift closed, and so he lowers his voice gently.

"I told her I'd be with her through this, that I'd keep her safe and make her happy. Why would you push a nurse she doesn't know or trust into her life, when I can easily do it myself, I brought her in didn't I?"

The Doctor does not alter her expression, or her tone of voice, and if in this moment she is anything other than confused, she is suspicious.

"Will, you are first officer of this ship, how do you possibly expect to spend all day on the bridge, then all night with Deanna without running yourself into the ground."

Deanna's breathing is slowly evening out into a sleeping rhythm of peace, and her heart rate has dropped ever so slightly to compensate. Riker's voice all of a sudden takes on the quality of a painful memory.

"I owe her Doc, I've walked away from her so many times when she deserved better, and I swear this time I'm going nowhere,"

He turns back to stroke again at Deanna's face, the skin cooling and soft now, his eyes full of a fondness he never knew was his.

"I have so much to make up for, I never should have walked away,"

He hears Beverly slowly approach his back, and one of her own slender hands clasps over his shoulder, strong and confident, but there is something more to her that is hurting on his behalf.

"I don't know what happened between you two or why, and I don't know what _this_ is, but if you're sure you can do this, I think I might just let you try."

"Thank you,"

He lets his head drop heavily to look down at where his knees are bent to crouch, the floor swimming like a wavy flag, and the memory of her joy when he'd proposed two years ago, the reflection of a letter he'd sent on their wedding day stares back at him.

"Thank you,"

* * *

The mornings are rough, too early to do much more than wake, empty her stomach, and then sleep away the nausea in his arms, often looping two or three times before 0700 when Beverly drops by with her box of magic and medicine.

The afternoons are invariably better, and she can almost convince herself that there really is no problem, now that the supplements have been mixed to a potency that keeps her own mind clear and her body able to hold her upright. She reaches a point where Bridge duty is not so daunting, and she continues to refuse to be excused from it, enjoying the feeling of sitting beside the Captains soft confidence, and the care he demonstrates without even saying a word.

The work makes her feel useful, and well, and not at all as though she was _used_ by an entity of no description to incubate a child she still does not know the nature of. Riker's eyes are always on her, it seems, and she can feel in him the desire to make up for his mistakes in their relationship, and she's tried to tell him that it's not necessary, but she can feel even in herself that she is not truthful. There had been a point where she had blamed their failure on youth, but as everybody seems to enjoy reminding her, she is _still_ young, and he is not anymore.

Maybe he had been a hothead, or maybe she should have listened to her mother when she said he was too old for her, but at the time 6 years seemed like nothing. And he was so shiny and bright, full up on big big starship dreams, and she had thought that if her father could have seen him they would have been as kindred spirits. In the end, it was those big big starship dreams that got in the way of his love for a 21 year old student on Betazed, a _girl_ even, who had seemed so refined already, so polished that her University degree came with two Starfleet pips and no need for the command fast track. But he was burning with desire and she could feel it, always as though he were one offer away from leaving her side. Eventually, he did, and a series of terrible events led them together again, a year after they should have met to be wed, both of them older, neither very much wiser.

Then another year, and she had learned not to call him _Bill_ , learned how to enjoy his company without expecting more, learned to foster a fledgling relationship that almost certainly would have lead to the closest of friendships.

And then _this_ , and everything she has learned seems to escape her, because she can _feel_ his eyes on her, _feel_ how he burns with this new challenge, now that he has the command he wants, the challenge now of finding some way to have it all, to make up to her what he had so carelessly thrown away.

She lifts her head up, somebody is coming closer to her.

"When do the water lilies bloom?"

She finds herself asking, fingers just skimming the surface of the water; the someone is watching her motions with suspicion.

A woman appears from around the hedgerow of thistles and holly, watching over the pond that Deanna finds herself crouched down beside.

"Not for a few more weeks, Counselor,"

It is the voice of Keiko, the young botanist woman, who responds, her feet light on the cobblestones as she approaches.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

She asks, and suddenly, the water that rushes gently in the falls before them, is far too loud to think over. Deanna stands up slowly, up and off her haunches so that her robe and nightgown crease back down to her ankles. There is a pang of shock in the woman as Deanna's body comes into profile.

"No - thank you,"

She smooths, ignoring how Keiko's eyes bulge a little at the sight of her changing body - it is possible that she has not heard what happened.

But then, in another second, another shock of terror that is not hers, it is clear that she knows all too well.

In a ship this large, she maybe had false hope that this would not spread to the civilian level.

"Counselor Troi?"

Keiko shocks her from her thoughts, and it seems she has been too silent for too long. Her fingers slip around the closed bud of a rose that springs up to her waist.

"I'm sorry, I like to come down here to think sometimes, I suppose it is calming,"

Deanna explains, letting the bud slip away and turning out to face along the path, her bare feet cold against the cobbles.

It has not yet occurred to her that she looks lost, and horribly out of place.

"I can leave if… if you'd rather I - ?"

Miss Ishikawa tries to say, but her sentence is poorly constructed, and Deanna is too distracted at having finally remembered her last name, and the exact contents of the one single time they have spoken before; that was in the safe zone of her office, however.

"No, I do not mind the company,"

Deanna tells her, thinking about the woman's neurosis concerning space travel, and her relationship issues with the transporter chief O'brien; she is a woman who fills herself with the cycling trivialities that make being a Counselor just bearable.

She starts walking slowly down the path that turns along past further rows of short peach trees, and finds that Keiko follows her at a cautious distance, busying her attention by picking and pruning at the few withering leaves she comes upon.

"These peaches seem to be developing wonderfully in this atmosphere,"

From up ahead, Deanna's compliment reaches the botanist, and though she cannot see Keiko's face, she can feel the appreciation that is returned to her.

Her slim fingers knot themselves around the stalk of a fruit.

"I'm glad you noticed, it's taken some serious work to get the balance just right in here,"

Keiko appears more quickly at her side, now that she has stopped walking.

"You can take one if you want, they're just about ripe,"

The woman plucks one free for herself, accenting her point, or maybe just trying to make Deanna feel more comfortable in eating one herself; the suggestion, however, drives an unexpected stab of hunger through her, and so she pulls free a peach of her own.

"Thank you,"

Deanna says gratefully, already biting into the fuzz and finding her mouth almost watering around the succulence of fresh fruit. It reminds her of the summer fields back home.

They continue walking together, somewhat awkwardly, until the path ends in a sloping grassy bank, and the river that runs down into it from the pond she had found herself at earlier.

Keiko falters as the counselor moves to sit, straight legged on the grass, her nightgown falling into a pool around her waist and up to her knees. Deanna looks up at her where the woman lingers on the path still, her eyes a silent welcome.

Soon, they two are strangers on a slope of rolling green, eating fresh fruit and avoiding the gaze of the other, feeling only slightly uncomfortable.

"Is there a project that requires your attention?"

Troi asks, the curiosity finally filling the silence of chewing mouths and the babbling of running water.

"Um, no - not really, why do you ask?"

"It is just, you are working late,"

Keiko responds more tellingly not with words, but with raised eyebrows and a pointed expression.

"I was thinking the same of you,"

She gestures down at the woman's pajamas, the peach forgotten in her other hand, and that same accusation remains on her face.

"Is something wrong?"

She adds, dropping the fruit altogether on the grass, and leaning back slightly with her arms outstretched behind her, giving off the feeling that it has been a while herself since she last enjoyed her work this way.

" _I was thinking the same of you_ ,"

Deanna echos, sitting further upright and fixing her new companion with a kind of wry smile, one that does not scream evasion, but is a symptom of it nonetheless. Their eyes meet for a few moments, above the mouthful of peach juice, and another that is full only of questions.

"Touche,"

It seems suddenly that they are both smiling, and whatever trepidation she had expected of Keiko, this is most certainly not it. She is a refreshing person of joviality in a series of days that have been lived beneath a deep and mournful cloud.

"Well okay then,"

The woman starts, pushing back up to lean forward, wiping her hands off on the cotton tops of her thighs, her clothes simple and disarmingly civilian, covered in the charm of hardwork - dirt and leaves.

"I'm avoiding a date night with Miles, because he told me my work wasn't as _important_ as his - whatever _that_ means,"

Keiko explains, rolling her eyes in exacerbation at her own plight, her mind sticking with the memory of the man's words more than with her own handling of the situation. It is a fledgling romance, they both know this, it is baby love, and in their youth, they are doing nothing wrong at all.

"I'm sure he'll apologise once he sees sense, and if not, well, then I'll just have to make him,"

A cunning smile comes upon her, and she has an upstanding soul, Deanna notes, smiling along with her.

"I…I, uh, hear you and Commander Riker might...be in a _similar_ sort of, um, _situation_ ,"

Deanna frowns deeply almost immediately - are they gossiping?

"I have no idea to what you are referring, Miss Ishikawa,"

She responds diplomatically, but the humour has returned well to her, and suddenly her cheeks are rosy with the pleasure of it. A perfectly arched eyebrow accompanies the look, and Keiko sees her for the first time now, as if she is complete.

" _Of course_ ,"

They fill the ensuing silence then with giggling, young and fresh and tinkling along with the running water and the rustling of leaves about them, as though they are anywhere else than midnight on a starship.

It is even almost the silent and creeping am.

"Since you have told me, then, you may as well know I am here because -"

Deanna falters, and they break eye contact as she looks down at her own hands atop her thighs, confusing even herself with this motive she does not know.

"Well, because I cannot sleep,"

She thinks of Will's well-meaning presence on her sofa, snoring and rolling off onto the floor every half hour, falling with a thud and a curse that he hopes he has not woken her - she is awake anyway, not because of his noise, but because she has spent so long sleeping alone that she doesn't know how to be anyway else.

She doesn't tell him this.

"I've been working only _light_ duty lately, and I am certain it will drive me to insanity,"

Keiko almost laughs aloud, but tempers herself and tries to keep up the mood.

"I guess you'd be the most qualified to know!"

And then they laugh again, Deanna changing positions against the bank to cross her legs like a child, and extending her arms behind her as Keiko had before; she tries hard to breathe in slowly, to steady herself.

"It is my _professional_ opinion, yes,"

The humour peters out in an exhausted way, as though they are both so awake that they must be tired, and grins turn languidly into lazy parted lips.

Deanna's nightgown lays flat over her body as she leans back, and she feels how eyes find themselves pulled like magnets to her centre - it does not take long for her elephant to trample its way through the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Keiko asks brazenly, insightful enough, but perhaps a little tactless; then maybe she just practices in directness.

"Talk?"

Deanna asks, creasing up her eyebrows, wondering when she lost her own insight, and let control of the conversation slip away from her.

"It's just, you, you look a little lost, _Deanna_ ,"

A beat.

"I know it's a cliche, but when your job is to listen to people's problems, I just wonder, sometimes, who do you talk to?"

Keiko lays a hand on the grass next to her, in the space between them, just close enough that maybe emotions, electricity could arc between, that maybe they might share something in it.

"I do not -"

Deanna falters.

"I have people near me, if I need to,"

The civilians face falls away from her lazy smile, falls away from whatever spark of joy they might have shared.

"But are they your _friends_?"

Keiko asks emphatically, drawing her hand back into her centre and using it to sweep the hair that has fallen in her eyes, wanting badly not to allow a moment where either one of them can hide from the other. All of a sudden, it has become much more important to her that she _do_ something tonight, that she _help_ somebody that is not green and vegetative. She has seen an opportunity to make a difference.

"We could be friends,"

She offers, and Deanna looks at her shrewdly, wondering if there is an ulterior motive, and who knew she could be such a jaded girl.

Keiko turns inwards, and finds herself asking - _who hurt her_?

The Counselor nods slowly, but says nothing at all, having made a judgement in her mind, that maybe she could use the people in her life now more than ever.

"My grandmother,"

Keiko begins, when it is clear Deanna has nothing to say, a sigh trapped in her throat.

"She… she used to tell me that people - that we are each only as old as our omens,"

Her voice has taken on a much softer quality, and the memory is fond and filled up in shades of purple and green.

"I keep hearing people talk about how young you are, and it reminds me of what she said,"

Deanna's eyes lift up from where they have been staring into her lap, and she wonders what else is being said about her that she cannot hear in the walls themselves.

"Because you feel much older than that to me,"

Keiko reaches now finally to graze the Counselors skin, a woman who is at once a child, and a sage of a hundred years.

It is amazing, the knowledge that people have so deeply inside themselves, from the places they have been and the people who have shaped them, and yet this knowledge is just hidden until such a time when it may be even remotely useful - Deanna can think only now of her _omens_.

And she is a deceptive woman, a terribly unique blend of age and youth, her face so ageless and her body maybe that of a childs, and a child grows of it - her mind is much older.

"Omens?"

She asks, finally breaking the contemplation. A single fish leaps in the water below.

"They're, uh, the things that mean something, anything that might happen, or will - they warn,"

Keiko takes her hand away and gestures it infront of her when she speaks, trying to describe something she has only ever spoken of natively, in an ancient language she can barely recall.

"Having a child… like _this_ \- that's a really big omen,"

"Of what?"

Deanna responds very quickly, eager almost at the feeling that she's speaking with a healer, with the ghost of a woman she has never before met, through a culture she does not understand.

"I think you'd know that better than me,"

She is told humbly, Keiko not exactly fishing for more news on what has happened, not gossiping, but certainly filling herself up with the curiosity that lives in the very ground they sit on.

Deanna bites her lip at the thought of it, of the uncertainty of it all, but there is a feeling that grips her shoulders and shakes her into gratitude.

"Thank you,"

She emphasises, and Keiko's eyes crease up in shock.

"What for?"

Her whole body shifts to face in to Deanna, to be in awe of how tempered she is, how fortified and fragile.

"For not trying to tell me I will be _fine_ ,"

She frowns.

"People have been insulting my intelligence by telling me this will all be okay, but I know they are lying,"

Deanna adds, brimming over with a sudden sense of venom, but remaining soft and level all the same, a fine breeze that drifts apart from a hurricane.

"Tell me I will die, or that this will be too painful, that I'm going to _hurt_ , but please, do not endeavor to lie to me, do not tell me this will be _okay_ ,"

They meet eyes again for another time, a vision of reality each in the others - compassion, mortality, _empathy_.

"I… I hadn't realised it was like that,"

Keiko says, flawed maybe for a moment, because the gossip has never considered how this will _end_.

"Do you… have you made a decision, about whether -?"

Maybe they do not know each other well enough to ask, but she has done it anyway.

Deanna breathes as though the air has just become much cleaner - it is a strange opposite of reaction.

"I'm keeping it,"

She says simply, a smile of grace coming upon her face.

"But I would not call it a _choice_ ,"

"Hmm?"

The Counselor takes a moment to think of herself, and all the things she cannot control, the things she has _tried_ to control nonetheless.

"I believe this may be another of your omens,"

She says sadly, a simplicism to her in the discussion of a concept she maybe still does not understand. A peculiar expression of wonder takes over Keiko's face, and she pulls her hand away from atop Deanna's own, rooting it in the grass so that she can ground herself a little, moving to sit more comfortably where it has become hard and cold.

"How so?"

She finds herself asking, not entirely sure she likes how the mood has changed too quickly for her to keep up with.

"The child,"

Deanna sighs, herself filled with indecision - but what harm can it do to speak with a stranger?

What could she lose of friendship with a woman she knows only in any hour that comes after midnight, in a smell that is clean grass and peach juice, who sounds like running water and distant chirping birds.

"It cannot be terminated,"

She is brazen in her speak of such a thing, the customs of her planet much different, the era such that it ought not matter - one woman to another.

"Dr Crusher's tried everything?"

Keiko wonders aloud, and she is not as taken aback as maybe would be expected, she is even terribly accepting of the reality of what has happened, even if she won't say it either.

"No, not Beverly,"

Finally, a flash of some emotion that is real, and not measured: _shock_.

There are tiny cracks of light appearing beneath her.

"Then...who?"

The gardner asks, the human even, a woman who will not understand what this is, just as Deanna had not understood the customs of Japan.

"Me,"

She tells her bluntly, an empath to all emotions but those that dwell within her, and she is teetering dangerously close to the edge of a wire, a fine line that has been drawn between the sanity she has always held onto dearly, and the mania that will arise once this kills her.

"It is Betazoid biology, that babies do not survive where they are not wanted, it is inherent, functional, _painless_ ,"

An artificial breeze catches itself in the treetops behind them, all the leaves groan, protesting the late hour.

Something sobering and _real_ , grips at all the living things.

"You - you mean… you don't want it?"

Keiko asks, knowing the answer but fearing the silence more than any knowledge she might have, full of a terror that this could have been her too.

Deanna just shakes her head in response, unashamed to admit that she is too young, that there are too many things left for her to do in her life to have a child now. She is unashamed to say that she does not want a child, or more specifically, that she does not want _this_ one.

"Have you spoken to anyone about it?"

"No, it is my burden and nobody else's,"

The botanist frowns, because she does not understand what is being said.

"How do you think the crew would feel about me knowing that I bear a child I despise?"

A surge of surprise rises like an electrical current in Keiko, a feeling that she has lost faith, that she is disheartened, that something she thought was true all this time has been wrong.

"They would feel as you do now,"

Deanna states sorrowfully, swallowing down around the regret that she felt she could say anything at all, because this would have been much easier to keep to herself.

"It is much simpler that people believe I care too deeply to let it go, rather than that I do not care at all,"

She starts to stand up, tired now because she has emptied herself of emotion, and filled up on somebody else's disappointment of her actions; she takes a moment to wonder if her mother would feel the same. Her body is a little stiffer than it was when she sat, and the fabric falls softly like water back down around her ankles as she straightens out.

Fire and blood rushes to her head - she sways - a hand reaches out for Keiko's shoulder.

And on the ground, she is shaken from her own reaction by Deanna's shaking hand on her cold skin, and suddenly, she has forgotten everything she thought, and sympathy joins urgency in a hollow at the centre of her heart.

"Counselor?"

Keiko calls, standing quickly herself, taking the hand that lies on her body in a hand of her own, clasped around the bony fingers there, tightly as though she herself is an anchor. Deanna's other hand is held over her eyes, blocking out the spinning world for just a few seconds.

"I'm fine, thank you,"

She says eventually, a deep sigh of new fatigue and the hope that she will now be more able to sleep; her body tries to dislodge itself from her companion's.

The counselor is walking away with remorse and maybe even a shame she does not want to feel, before Keiko can even call her back, or realise that her skin is cold now where the contact has left her.

"Deanna!"

She calls after the woman, desperate to take back how she had reacted, thinking maybe she had been so close to something better than _this_.

"I… I'm sorry,"

Deanna turns around to face her, a terrible smile made anew of her lips.

"I understand now,"

She wants more than three words to explain how she takes it all back, but Deanna is a woman built with too much grace to say anything more at all. Keiko can do nothing more than stand and watch as the woman wanders away, with bare feet and a sweeping gown like the ghost of some ethereal beauty nobody has yet had the chance to see but her.

She swallows around a lump in her throat when the ghost is gone, and even her words don't seem to have done enough to take it back, because they had been empty.

She _understands_ nothing at all.


	5. Dissent

There is a weight of suspicion hanging over them all, hot and frantic and filled with a tension that is threatening to split them all in two.

There are security guards, two, stood beyond the entrance to the private room, unable to see inside the closed screens, who have been told nothing of why they are there, and so brim up on one half of the feeling - a readiness to uncoil like springs and fight without cause.

Then there are nurses, two, bumbling like extensions of Beverly herself, so it is the woman has three brains, and six arms, all of them armed with the same information as there is on offer, and so they spill over in the other half of the feeling - the curiosity, the pursuit of knowledge, pure and simple.

It is a terrible dichotomy to be caught between.

Deanna is playing with the ties of the gown she has been changed into, and her eyes find themselves lingering over the pointed ends atop a tray of needles. It all seems just a little too medieval to her, but she has been told it is necessary - _for analysis_.

And that's a terrible thought to have, given how she has tried to run from it with a desperation she has not known before, that she is something now which needs to be examined, monitored, to be watched over by armed guards.

Beverly is not happy that they are there, but for some reason this situation is not covered in any number of Starfleet Protocol Manuals, and so the Captain had no choice but to send just two men, in case something, _anything_ , should go wrong.

They have had to wait approximately 12 days since she first became pregnant, to allow enough time that the foetus is nearly 3 months in development, and therefore contains enough genetic material for full, biomolecular analysis.

And that is where the needles come in, looking at her distrustfully from across the room, gleaming their anticipation.

She begins to wish that she had not brushed off Will so quickly when he offered to be with her, thinking perhaps she may now need a hand to hold.

"Are you ready Counselor?"

Alyssa's hand is cold over her forearm, and all she can think to do is nod, even if it follows with no sincerity, at least she has the presence of mind to do so.

"We're going to numb the area with this analgesic gel-"

The woman indicates a small metallic tube between the fingers of her other hand.

"But you may feel some pressure once the needle begins to draw fluid,"

A surge of panic rises within her, and she considers what would have to happen for her to be allowed to back out now.

Across the room, Beverly's voice moves to try to calm her.

"You have nothing to worry about, I've done this procedure plenty of times and most women tell me they feel nothing at all,"

Somehow, _most_ gets lodged in her throat, and it really is no comfort at all.

Alyssa leaves her side with a tight smile, and returns to the counter she had been working at, her actions concealed by her body, as though there is something there that they do not wish for her to see.

And if she wished, she would simply force her way into their minds and see it anyway.

But that is a terribly destructive thought to have had, and in shame, Deanna manages to blame it on the _hormones_ , as if she is no different than anybody else.

The bed begins to lower down mechanically, and the Doctor descends upon her, separating the centre portion of her gown to expose the milky, unblemished skin of Deanna's stomach.

A prickle of cold sends all her hairs on end.

Something even cooler is spread around one small area just below her belly button, and her skin has not lost its tightness, but somehow, her stomach is no longer as concave as it maybe used to be when she lay down.

There is a distinct solidity to it.

And then, she can feel nothing much at all, but she can see that there are fingers still against the surface of her skin, like phantoms, as though her eyes are deceiving her.

"Are you ready?"

She is asked again, and Beverly is already moving to draw the needle tray closer to the side of the biobed; an arm raises up and above her head beside the padding cushion, and she nods again with no sincerity at all.

At the point where the Doctors hands begin to manoeuvre the tip of a 3 inch long needle to the surface of her skin, eyes focused more on the moving image of the foetus on the wall panel behind her, Deanna has to shut her eyes, not willing to carry on watching something so intrusive, if she has the luxury of not having to feel it either.

But there are only a few seconds of numbness, and then pressure, aching in her muscles, then right in her centre where she is more, lasting for more than just a few seconds.

She can feel cramping that begins lightly to knot her up, and then the longer the pressure continues without relief, the stronger the feeling that she is being wrung tightly on the inside.

In a feeling that is almost like a rush of air, she is left empty, and aching only a little, and through one slightly cracked eye she watches as Beverly hands the filled vial at the end of the needle over to the other nurse in the room.

"You did great,"

She is telling her, but it is a terribly tedious thing to try to listen to when adrenaline is burning out her eardrums, replacing the sound with just rushing blood.

Beverly is wiping again at the point where the needle had gone in, and the area looks only a little aggravated, but for the small bead of blood that collects at the very spot before being swept aside patiently.

"Some light cramping is perfectly normal,"

The doctor adds, as though she is the empath, and Deanna realises very quickly that she has been silent this whole time, and not even her discomfort has left her mouth.

"How long,"

Her voice is only a little hoarse.

"How long until you know?"

Beverly tapes a small bandage over the incision sight, closes over the gown and wheels on her stool up towards Deanna's head, understanding too what it is to have broken this silence.

"Not long at all, the computers can run a baseline genetic analysis in a few minutes, we should know in just a moment"

She soothes, indicating to where Alyssa and the nameless nurse work against their panels still, and then looking back above Deanna's head to the scan on the wall.

"You've got a strong kid in there,"

The doctor nods upwards at the image, tracing the swaying movements of what appears to any ordinary person to be an awkwardly shaped bundle of cells.

Deep inside her mind, Deanna knows it is real because the second heartbeat has begun to live beside her own, but the image stirs nothing of a loving feeling in her.

"Doctor Crusher,"

Nurse Ogawa turns from the workstation with a newly loaded data pad in her hands, and she moves in several hurried strides over to them.

"The preliminaries,"

She says, pressing the pad into Beverly's hands and returning to her post with just as much speed as she had left, shy and feeling somewhat as an intrusion to whatever it is that is about to happen for the Counselor they have come to care for.

"What does it say?"

Deanna asks, and in one short burst of cynical humour that must have come from that other nurse, she is adding further comment before she can stop herself.

"Am I even having a _baby_?"

The nameless nurse throws a horrified glance over her shoulder, the woman's words a perfect mirror to what she had asked in her own mind just a second before; a deep shame overcomes her.

Beverly is too focused on her reading to really notice any of this, and she looks up eventually to meet Deanna's eyes, something of relief and _joy_ lighting her up.

"Early genetic markers suggest the baby is made up from 99.8% recognised patterns in the computers database, 50% Betazoid and 49.8% Human,"

"And the rest?"

Deanna presses, not so quick to relief as the Doctor.

"That's negligible Deanna,"

One of her hands reaches out for the girl's forearm in compassion.

"We're obviously going to conduct a much more in depth analysis to work that out, but this means you don't have to worry so much anymore, we know that it's _just a baby_ ,"

Beverly emphasises, maybe more relief to her than there is in Deanna, and the whole situation remains far too peculiar to shift the feeling that there is something more deeply incongruent than 0.2%.

There is a lot that could be wrong in that small space, and in its confines, the possibilities are endless; despite Beverly's reassuring smile, it is impossible to feel much better at all. Because does this not raise more questions than it answers, or even than they started with almost two weeks ago?

Beverly is smiling encouragement at her, but in the confusion, the questions she needs answering, Deanna cannot even lie to herself, and force a fake joy onto her face.

* * *

There are three men waiting for him in his ready room, he knows as much because Will has told him, standing from his own seat, when he finds himself back on the bridge.

He'd been taking a long lunch, clearly too long.

"Is there a problem number one?"

The Captain asks, descending the curve of the ramp to where Will is waiting for him, his shoes firm and supple against the carpet.

"They wouldn't say, just that they'd only talk to you about it,"

"Oh,"

Picard breathes out, stalking away from him and towards his ready room door, he turns when the man's voice slows him.

"Brace yourself Sir, it doesn't look pretty,"

Riker warns, sitting himself back down in the Captain's chair with as much importance as he has in him, and so Picard grimaces, wishing that it were possible to delegate even all the duties of Captaincy, so that he maybe could just sit back in that one chair and watch all the stars go by.

His ready room door opens up, and here he was thinking his day was uneventful, _ordinary_.

There are three men sitting in front of his desk, and he hadn't realised there were even three chairs to be sat at, let alone room enough in the space for three to fit.

But they are there nonetheless, each in a different colour uniform, each men, each _human_. He has a feeling he knows what this is about.

"Gentlemen,"

Picard greets, and they stand all to alert immediately, the chairs scraping backwards loudly on the carpeted deck; the grimace still has not left his face.

"Captain Picard, we wondered if we might have a word?"

A man he recognises as Lieutenant Holt stands firmly in their centre, and he speaks as though he himself is a terribly important person; he wears a red command uniform and a smirk that he has accomplished such a meeting.

" _Might_?"

Picard finds himself echoing as he skirts around the desk and to his own seat, gesturing the three men to stand down, and retake their previous positions. They all three seem tense when they sit.

"I'm told you all but demanded to speak with me, and me alone?"

He sits down heavily, places his hands in a clasped knot on the surface of the desk, and fixes Holt with his best searing gaze.

The man seems irritatingly unfazed.

"That's true Sir, we were worried Commander Riker would be biased against our point of view,"

"Oh?"

Holt swallows down against his urge to become argumentative, and Picard's impassibility could grate on anybody after long enough. Beside him, a science officer, Rogers he thinks, puts a hand on his shoulder to quiet him.

"We just thought it would be easier to speak directly with you - to avoid any misunderstandings,"

He explains, clearly the more level headed of the three, and he turns to the third in the group, a man in a golden uniform who seems only to be there for numbers, his eyes harshly downcast. Or perhaps, he is the most easily intimidated; Picard cannot remember his name.

"Misunderstandings about what, what was it you wanted to discuss?"

He asks after a brief pause of speculation that has not served him well, growing tired already at whatever petty dispute it is he is being made to solve.

"We just have some concerns we wanted to voice about - well - about Counselor Troi,"

Rogers says, stumbling over his words only a little, his indelicacy laced throughout his pronunciation of her name, as though she has become something taboo. The Captain finds himself taken aback, lost himself for words, biting at the tip of his tongue that he does not bite out with something that is not professional, something that is made up from a reflex of her defense.

He tightens his clasped hands.

"Yes?"

He forces out neutrally, relinquishing his hold on himself just enough to free one syllable, hoping it will be more than enough to pull an explanation out of the men.

Holt, the hot-head, breaks back into the conversation.

"We've heard about this _pregnancy_ she's entertaining, as well as it's inception, and we feel that she's being given undue special treatment which could put the entire ship in danger,"

Diplomacy forces its way out of the man, but even then, there is something of _disgust_ to him, something of revulsion.

"Well,"

Picard breathes out, raising his eyebrows to the new tension in the room.

"That's a lot more than a simple _concern_ , crewmen,"

He says, making sure to label them as a group so that he cannot be accused of singling one out, reminding them of their place at the same time.

"He doesn't mean it like that,"

Finally, the third man speaks, his voice slightly hoarse as though he is struggling with a cold, and yet still soft with something of compassion. He is recogniseable now as Ensign Kravitch, his blonde hair and agreeable demeanor reminding him of a conversation they had many months ago, when he had asked for time off after finding out his wife had suffered a miscarriage.

Picard lets a smile of sympathy light him up for a second, understanding his individual plight.

"Do you Holt?"

Kravitch adds, digging the man in the ribs to try to check him, though it seems too late.

"No, that's exactly what I mean, we discussed this guys, the woman needs to be removed from this ship!"

His exclamation is harsh, and suddenly full of a fire that is not appreciated.

"Lieutenant, I remind you that _that woman_ is a valued officer serving aboard the bridge of _this ship_ , and as such she is of a higher rank than you - you will afford Counselor Troi the respect she deserves,"

Picard orders in a voice that is rising away from his usual calm, and hanging just slightly below a wire that will break him in two; he wishes she were closer by to calm him, and not on the other side of the ship helping somebody else through problems much less than her own.

"All due respect sir,"

Sentences started that way never seem to end well.

"But the Counselor has shown no respect herself to this vessel in allowing an alien lifeform to _breed_ aboard it, so why should I respect her?"

Holt is not asking a question, and again, the hands of his comrades are hovering over his shoulders, each on one side of him trying to pull the anger away by simple human contact.

But therein lies the problem, they are _simple_ , and _human_.

"Richie, please, don't be crass, we said we'd be calm about this,"

Kravitch tries to calm him, and a deep and creeping shade of red begins to scale the man's face.

"I still don't quite understand what it is you're hoping to achieve here gentlemen?"

Picard asks, unclasping his hands and resting them instead atop his thighs as he reclines slightly in his seat, trying to act as though he is unphased.

"Sorry Captain, we wanted to just make our concerns known - that Counselor Troi is putting the ship in danger by not terminating the foetus, or, or that she ought not be allowed to remain aboard, if she is determined to keep it,"

Rogers explains for the three, his words ostensibly those of a science officer, measured in reason that ought not exist of a young human male.

"Hold on,"

The Captain halts discussion with a raised hand, still sitting back in his chair, and the taste of his words are bitter at the root of his tongue.

"Are you suggesting I order a member of my crew to terminate her pregnancy, or abandon her planetside if she refuses?"

The men are silent in their seats.

"Have you forgotten your humanity?"

He asks of them, disgust rising like bile in his throat. Urgency has him sitting up straighter in his desk chair.

"Have you forgotten how she's helped each of you with your problems, selflessly, how she's single-handedly been responsible for saving this vessel on more than one occasion, have you forgotten that she's suffering the most with this?"

Picard demands of them, fighting the urge to stand and slam his fist on the desktop, instead urging his words on with a calmness he admires of himself, a calmness she would praise him for in this situation.

"No sir,"

Kravitch is the only one left with words in his mouth, and compassion perhaps in his heart.

"My wife wouldn't have been able to go on after we lost the baby, if it weren't for Deanna,"

And finally, someone has had the nerve to call her by name.

"We're just trying to say that… that -"

"That it's unnatural!"

Holt, again, cannot contain his fire over this, somehow feeling as though he is entitled to some greater opinion than he has been afforded.

"She's a liability to the ship, and we aren't the only ones who think it!"

He is standing up in his own aggression, and it is unprecedented in him, hot and furious and completely out of order.

"Lieutenant, take a seat before I have security come in here and remove you, I appreciate your concerns but I will only entertain them if you can rein yourself in!"

Picard snaps, his demeanor giving away none of the rage he feels slowly rising at the back of his teeth, and all his energy has gone into keeping his voice level and his hands steady.

The man is pushed down by his friends hands still on him, and for a few moments, a deep hush descends the room.

"Now, gentlemen, why have you come to me and not Commander Riker, is there something specifically that I can do to help you understand,"

Once again, the Captain reaches his restless body forward to clasp his hands on the desk, more tightly than before, the muscles in his shoulders tense now with the effort of holding himself in restraint.

"We think a lot of people would feel better if - well - if the medical report was made available to personnel,"

Kravitch says, as though he hates his own mouth for speaking, and Picard has to try hard not to let his eyes bug out of his head.

"You -"

He tries to start, but stutters over the disbelief that has lodged itself in his throat.

"You want me to release her medical records?"

There is a deep and affirming hush.

"Her _private medical records_?"

Picard reiterates, the disgust just now starting to crawl across his spine.

"I'm sorry but that is something that I just won't authorise,"

He says, and finally his voice has started to rise his outrage, legs itching to stand.

"But Sir-"

Roger's butts in, but he is cut off before he can even argue his point.

"No, I've listened to your _concerns_ long enough, have you any idea how archaic this sounds?"

Their heads are downcast in a shame that he thought they might never feel.

"Three young, white, human males sit in my office trying to tell me I should order a woman what to do with her body,"

He scoffs at the absurdity of it all.

"We might as well call ourselves the Trump administration and get it over with!"

Kravitch's eyes lift to meet the Captains in a moment of shock, perhaps realisation even, being a history buff himself, but they fall back down very quickly, and nobody can say a word at all.

"I think the Counselor has been violated quite enough already without me releasing the intimate details of her care to the entire ship, and she deserves more from us than to just be abandoned because of any decision she may or may not have made regarding her _own_ body,"

Picard stands now, rising like a changing tide, and beyond him through the viewport window, it is possible to see the moon that changes him, suspended perfectly in the blank space between.

"She deserves more than this _witch hunt_ ,"

He plants the palms of his hands firmly on the surface of his desk, if only to stop him from balling them into fists that he will be unable to control.

Still, even Holt can say nothing at all, two hands firmly over his shoulders to prevent him even if he had words enough in him; he is shaken now by the fear of reprimand, _demotion_.

"Your _concerns_ have been noted, _gentlemen_ ,"

The Captain emphasises, holding down over the sound of _gentlemen_ , trying to accent how he has tried to treat them fairly even as they have gone after a member of his crew, one who he cares for deeply.

"You are dismissed,"

He tells them finally, and there is no room for argument, they simply stand like pups with tails between their legs, and leave his ready room, in a troop that ends with Kravitch, the ops guy, and his sorrowful smile, as though he is the only one to have learnt anything at all.

Picard, deflated, falls back into his chair with all the mass of a whole planet pushing him down, a terrible realisation dawning on him that there is unrest in his crew, unrest he had been blinded to by love for her.

A second realisation dawns as suddenly as the first: that he _loves_ her, in whatever capacity that he has, not romantically - the thought shakes him- but deeply, and sorrowfully, and unprecedented in the speed with which it has gripped his throat.

The thought makes him dizzy, and he has to sit down for longer than while.

* * *

"No,"

"But, why not?"

She turns over her shoulder and calls back to him from the bedroom, the softness of her voice taken by her certainty.

"Because, Will, I do not want to,"

It doesn't take empathy to feel that he is disheartened, and suddenly, he is standing at her back, and the need to shout is lost.

"What about names then?"

He whispers down her ear, and his hands follow the patterns of her own, taking the towel from her and folding it in the air out in front of them.

Deanna sighs and turns in the small space afforded her between his extended arms; he sets the towel down atop the pile.

"No,"

She murmurs into him, looking up and into his eyes, tracing the desire she finds there.

"I do not want to know if it is a boy or a girl, nor do I want to talk about names,"

Small hands land on his chest with a thump, their palms out flat, and she pushes him lightly back from her so that she can walk away.

"Can we please just find something else to talk about?"

Deanna asks him, and he turns away from her bed to watch her go, the sway in her hips so delightful, regardless of whatever emotion may be looming - he will always appreciate that sway.

"Sure,"

He responds, turning to follow her, putting off pushing her too far for another day, because the easy domesticity of this is too precious for him to let go. She feels like his best friend again.

"The Captain had a visit on the bridge today,"

Will tells her, following where she has gone to. He finds her sitting now on the futon, a blanket over her legs.

"I know,"

She responds tiredly, and he does a double take as he comes up behind her, kneeling down on the ground at the back of the sofa; his fingers start to tickle at the tiny baby hairs loose at the nape of her neck.

"You know?"

A shiver runs down her spine at his touch.

"Yes,"

Deanna turns around against the cushions to face him, and their faces are very close together, his fingers still mid-air and grazing ever so lightly against her jaw.

"They made him very angry, he did well to control himself,"

"Angry?"

Will pulls a little away from her to regard her with that same awe he is always filled with, a pride even that she has such a reach, that she is so keen to the feelings of others.

"Do you know what they wanted, because they sure as hell wouldn't talk to me about it?"

He asks her, and she smiles at him with mirth, her black eyes softening with the thought that maybe he believes she had been purposefully listening in - the though that he wants her to use her empathy to _gossip_.

"I'm not sure,"

Deanna tells him, and it is impossible to be sure of her truth, because however soft her eyes may have become, they are still black, deep and unyielding.

"Richard was there, he was very angry also,"

He nods and pushes up back onto his feet, speaking as he moves over to the replicator.

"Holt? Yeah he seemed like he was in charge there,"

There is bitterness to him, and he orders something of the computer without saying a thing to it, instead tapping fast at the wall panel. When he turns back around, there are two mugs in his hands.

"Couldn't even look at me straight,"

Will says, appearing in front of her to place one mug on the low table, then sit down slowly in the armchair behind him, eyes wary at the sight of almost spilling hot chocolate from his own drink.

She smiles her thanks, but does not reach forward for it.

"There is a lot of hostility in him, but I'm sure he has his reasons,"

Deanna comments, reaching for a pad on her right and lighting it up to read what is written there.

"Crew evaluations?"

She is asked casually, and she simply nods yes, then proceeds to scroll until she reaches whatever she is looking for.

"Here -"

The scrolling stops, she looks up at him knowingly.

"He just put in for transfer, I'm supposed to order an assessment before he is allowed to move to a new post,"

She reaches forward now to pass him the pad, and on the way back into the cushions, she grabs up the hot chocolate, her eyes becoming greedy at the sight of it.

"Wow,"

Will blows out a shocked breath, blinking away his own surprise to keep scanning the text. He looks up at her, and she is hidden behind plumes of steam.

"His problem is with you?"

And his words, they have a way of looking at her too - she tries not to dwell on it.

"He is entitled to his opinion Will,"

There is something irksome about how calm she is, and he can't help but feel that she's making a concession, that she is _rolling over_.

"I've assigned a member of my staff to his assessment, once they are certain he's of sound mind then I will be more than happy to sign off on his transfer,"

Will scoffs.

"Can't say I'll miss the guy!"

He hands her back the pad, leaving it on the table as her hands grasp at the steaming mug still, bringing it up to her lips to take small, grateful sips; he imagines she is testing the water, trying to set her stomach up for sudden fullness.

Deanna hums into the depths.

"Some cause happiness wherever they go, others whenever they go,"

He frowns, his free hand playing with the rim of his own mug where it rests on the arm of the chair.

"Oscar Wilde?"

Will queries, impressed even at himself when she nods her affirmation, between sips.

He can't help but regard her with awe, because her mind is full of so much he wonders how there is ever any room for coherent thought; he thinks maybe he would be driven insane.

An ache forms in his chest at the realisation that she isn't _his_ to be in awe of, not anymore, and he finds himself half out of his mind with love, hoping not to die this way.

Deanna's eyes meet his over the brim of porcelain and steam, knowingly, and they are two perfectly blank orbs of obsidian, so dark that they must contain the stars themselves.

He wonders if maybe one day he won't find an entire universe there.

"Are you ready for the meeting tomorrow?"

Will manages to ask, his throat not quite closed up over the feeling.

She drops the mug back into her lap, where her legs are tucked tightly into her body.

"Why would I not be?"

A question for a question - and she is terribly good at this game.

"I thought, after your appointment with Beverly, you might be a bit nervous for the senior staff to know,"

She smiles tiredly at him.

"I already told you it went fine, I have nothing to be nervous about,"

It is too convincing, and her hands push the mug out from her centre slightly, as though she has just been reminded of what's there.

"If you're sure -?"

Will knows by now that it is pointless to push her.

"Captain Picard has already rescheduled to accommodate me, I do not want to be any more of a problem,"

Something does not sit right in her stomach, and she reaches to set the hot chocolate back down on the table, still almost full to the top. The motion is not lost on him.

"Hey,"

Will leans forwards to put a hand over her knee, to pat gently at her exposed skin there, where the silk of her gown has slipped away.

"You can't help getting sick,"

It is a simple snapshot of domesticity.

Her hair falls loose from her ponytail as she shakes her head again at him, and it might be impossible to make her see sense.

"How about some dinner then, you can't sleep on an empty stomach, you know it only makes it worse,"

Will takes his hand away and runs it over his growing beard, still fighting the urge to shave off where it is sharp and uneven. That small part of him wants to wait for her opinion, though she has yet to make any comment at all.

"I'm not hungry,"

She tells him, exasperated already because she can tell that this is a topic he _will_ push her on.

"Please don't make me,"

Deanna asks of him, preemptively perhaps, and even her plea could be enough to stop his heart beating in his chest, but he continues to hold onto this easy monotony with the very tips of his fingers.

"We can eat anything you want, I swear, but I won't take no for an answer,"

He smiles his lopsided grin.

"That would make me derelict in my duties as best friend and live-in nurse,"

A small tinkle of a laugh breaks free from her, full of the image of him in one of those archaic 'sexy' nurse uniforms from one of his own stupid holodeck programs; he finds himself proud that he has made her laugh.

"O- okay, but only for you, and only something small,"

She stutters, laying out her conditions in a way he might threaten to call aristocratic, but really just charms him all the same - he wonders if she knows she's pouting when she does that.

So he leaves Deanna on the sofa, readjusting her blanket to cover the skin that is cold now that he has left her, pulling her hair loose completely from it's elastic constraints.

He wants to look back and watch her motions, because delight is in everything she does, even the simplest of everyday tasks make him feel like he could go insane loving her. The other half of his mind tries to hold on very tightly to him.

"Soup?"

Will calls back over his shoulder, and the sudden raised voices after a period of murmurs has her slightly startled.

"Surprise me,"

He raises his eyebrows at nobody in response, and starts to play with the controls of the replicator, cycling through a list of flavours, consistencies, temperatures, thinking there must be something, at least one thing therein that she will be able to stomach.

His decision begins to materialise on a tray in the bessel, and the smell reaches him much sooner than he reaches out for it. Deanna can smell it too, so it seems, and she is sniffing tightly at the air around her, half intrigued and half repelled.

Will presents the tray to her as though it is a cushion with a tiara on top, and she smiles at the thought he has put into it, the way he has arranged a series of plain crackers to resemble a Jenga tower, and the herbs on the surface of a bowl of chicken noodle soup into a smiling face.

"An excellent surprise, thank you,"

Deanna praises him, and she takes the tray with his guiding hands still hovering, placing it down onto her lap.

"Not a problem, Miss Troi,"

He has put on an old English accent, and it reminds them both of their Captain.

Laughter and mirth fills the space for a few pure moments.

Tentatively, she reaches to skim a thin cracker over the surface of the soup, and a delightful chicken broth clings to its end.

She nibbles at it with small bites and pulled back lips, and something changes inside her.

"My compliments to the chef,"

Deanna continues on the joke, but her English accent is much better than his somehow, being perhaps slightly closer to Betazoid inflection than Will's goofy americanisms. He beams now, so relieved that he has won this time, and lightened her mood at the same time.

It is two birds - so they say.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

He asks, maneuvering back to the armchair where his mug still waits for him, and he sits with crossed legs and the base of it against his knee, still hot enough to spread its warmth.

Deanna is swallowing down the last of the cracker when they meet eyes.

"No, thank you, this is quite enough hard work for one night,"

She tells him, still with that same humour, thoroughly enjoying the pretence now that they do not have to discuss more difficult things, enjoying the fact that - with him - she can be _silly_.

"Sure I can't… rub your feet or something?"

"I'm sure, Commander Riker,"

They eye eachother up for a moment, before breaking again into delighted smiles as she continues to eat, slowly but surely, and soon she finds herself slurping at spindly noodles. Blue eyes soften at the sight of how focused she is on the task, like a child, and it is easy to forget that she is royalty, truly, that she is possessed of royal blood.

"I thought,"

She breaks her way through his reveree, maybe purposefully he cannot be sure, and there is a single noodle suck in the corner of her mouth; she plucks it free before continuing.

"I thought this was a human custom for when one is ill?"

Will smiles at the eloquence of her speech, still stuck on the thought that he has a princess in his presence, struggling like a child with the things he takes for granted.

"Chicken noodle?"

He clarifies with her, and she nods, chewing on the stray noodle thoughtfully; perfectly done nails scratch at her face where it has been.

"Uh yeah, I guess, it's good for having a stuffy nose or something,"

Will reasons out, watching eagerly as she takes up another cracker and dips it straight into the bowl without any hesitation.

"And you know I'm not ill?"

She mumbles before taking a bite, her face turning upwards in pleasure at the taste.

"Is the soup good?"

He counters pointedly, and her immediate nod and groan around a mouthful is enough to answer him.

"Stop over-analysing it then - it's just food,"

 _And thank god you're eating it_.

A fall in her expression and he's sure she heard his finishing thought.

She swallows slowly.

"I heard you talking in your sleep last night,"

One half of his mouth curls up as if to smile, but stops just short, in case this is not going to be something he enjoys hearing.

"Oh really, what'd I say?"

She raises her sculpted eyebrows at him, her face perfectly dry, and he can feel that there is something sarcastic and familiar rolling at the back of her mouth.

Instead, she just shakes her head, and takes another bite from the cracker, catching it's crumbs with her free hand - delicately.

"Nothing filthy, I hope,"

Will comments, only a half joke, given how he hasn't had any sex at all this week, and that really is restraint when he considers what he'd be doing right now if it weren't for her.

Deanna regards him suspiciously from behind the back of her hand, covering her mouth.

"I didn't give away my access codes did I? Any of Starfleet's biggest secrets? My mother's maiden name?"

He guesses, hoping to elicit a smile, maybe distract even himself from how his mind now won't leave the topic of what strains in his pants; being with her, it is an inevitability, only he hopes she has not noticed.

She swallows again, harder this time against the humour, distracting _herself_ from what's in his pants.

"You told someone called Sharon to 'put the cat back in the bag',"

Deanna struggles to tell him, and a wide smile breaks out across her face again.

"In fact, I believe you made it an order... and she was _Ensign_ Sharon,"

Wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, she dips the spoon down in her bowl of soup, toying with the idea of more than just plain crackers and stray noodles. Another thought occurs to her, and she looks back up at him.

"Then you said something about mustard, but of course I could be mistaken, it was very muffled,"

She tells him matter-of-factly, and his face just now is registering his confusion, a smile they now share, and a frown that tells of difficult recollection.

"I'm allergic to cats,"

Will muses aloud, and she can contain her laughter no longer.

Suddenly, it is raining and the war is over, her face has broken open into pure joy, the look of incredulity on his face simply too much to ignore, his comment so not what she was anticipating in response.

"I don't know any Sharon's,"

He adds, and she continues to laugh with the same intensity, the spoon rattling against the bowl along with the shaking of her body and the tinkering of her voice as it rings like a callous bell.

She is beautifully out of place in amongst all of it, he thinks, a goddess among mortals, like the moon during the day.

Between stifled giggles, she manages a sentence.

"I did not… dare try to do any… _personal research_ ,"

Her phrasing is peculiar, and impressed upon, and he is just glad she didn't, because God knows what she might have found in his mind.

God knows _what_ Sharon would have been up to.

Deanna laughs a little harder again, and it seems she might never stop.

"As far as I know, I've never said anything in my sleep before,"

He tells her, maybe even to try to help her calm down from her laughter, because she is breathing heavily, and he thinks that's probably a bad thing for her pulse ox' levels. Or something.

A final breath out that seems like a squeal of joy, and she begins wiping the corners of her eyes.

"It's, um,"

Words will not come easily to her now.

"Usually brought on… brought on by stress,"

He delights in watching her try to be sensible again, try to be composed again as always, and he is grateful for the opportunity of having seen her in more easy pieces of herself.

"It's called somniloquy,"

Deanna tells him, digging through piles of useful knowledge to find it deep in her mind, part of a treatment program for a face she has not seen in a very long time.

" _Somnimnokly_? Isn't that a Shakespeare thing,"

Will asks, confused, his pronunciation absolutely monstrous, enough to pull another giggle from her, girlish and charming.

"That is soliloquy, Will,"

Gently, she corrects him, and he tips his head down to the right, eyes like two crystals that attempt to freeze her. Memory grips them both, and their time together rushes back like a burst pipe, everything of fantasy, of sweating flesh and roaring flame.

"How'd you get to be so smart?"

It is the perfect mirror to where they had been years ago, and he had rolled over atop a pile of blankets to look at her smooth, naked back in the firelight, to the sound of her reciting somebody else's words from somebody else's world. She had been as endearing then as she is now, and his question just the same.

But she is even smarter now, smart enough to know not to give him the same answer.

"I _do_ have a PhD, you know,"

The spell is broken.

"I know that, but you wouldn't be able to blame me for not,"

She smiles more reservedly now than before.

"You _also_ know that I do not like to brag,"

Will hums in response, his eyes narrowed, biting back a comment about how it _isn't bragging_ to go by Dr if you've earned it, and at such a young age.

She goes back to her soup, running the spoon deeply through it and pulling it back out in a still-steaming broth that brings a look of trepidation to her eyes.

"So, got any insights for me?"

Around a full mouth, she frowns in question.

"The mustard,"

Will clarifies, gesturing with one hand to his head before reaching to take a drink of hot-chocolate, fretting all of a sudden that it might have gone cold.

She gulps, and dips her spoon back in the bowl more slowly this time.

"Oh, well I suppose - unless you're abusing alcohol or illicit substances - then it's probably down to emotional stress,"

Deanna cannot meet his eyes as she explains this to him, knowing that it's probably her fault, that stress has borrowed her name for a while. She busies herself with taking another spoonful of soup, blowing away the steam from its surface so that a cloud lives in front of her for a moment, obscures her.

"Well, lucky I'm friends with a damn good Counselor then,"

He says, then immediately berates himself for flirting at a time like this, and so just settles on watching her thoughtfully chew and swallow, her jaw working more and more slowly than before. Deanna swallows it down, harshly, largely unchewed, and a newly sour expression comes upon her; he is quick to react.

"No more?"

It is clear her stomach has turned.

She shakes her head now with the back of her hand against her mouth, the spoon clinking hard against the bowl where she has dropped it down.

Will moves in quickly then, to stand and cross to her to take the tray from her lap, pulling it away from under her nose and over to the recycler; it is a route he has well down by now, given that she can't seem to stomach much of anything at all anymore.

And maybe he ought to talk to Beverly about it.

He returns to her with a glass of water, but she shakes that away too, swallowing several times with a lump down in her throat. Instead, she is holding out her hands for him to help her up, and he does once he's put the glass down and straightened out enough to stand squarely.

"Thank you,"

Deanna says meaningfully, leaving the blanket behind for him to sleep with, and she steps fast from his embrace, like a skittish creature caught in bright lights.

"Going to bed already?"

He asks, and she throws a glance over her shoulder where she has started to turn her back to him, full of a look that asks him if he's being serious.

"It's been a long day,"

She reasons, thinking of how she had barely slept the night before, her conversation with Keiko, the appointment with Beverly and the three patients she had seen afterwards. A hand finds itself sweeping past the tender skin over her stomach, where a plaster still sits atop a blooming bruise.

"Well I'll be here all night if you need anything,"

Will tells her, and she nods like it's obvious.

"I know,"

They trade in smiles and tired glances before she turns to walk away again, swaying from him again and towards her bedroom, the door still frozen open and inviting her in to the darks.

"Sleep well, Imzadi,"

He calls sweetly after her, and she doesn't turn at all in response.

"And you,"

Deanna yawns, and a heartbeat gets stuck in his throat that she maybe doesn't care, but as she disappears into the darkness, breathing deeply, he swears he can hear her add:

"Imzadi,"

He wants to say _I love you_ , but thinks it's best to leave it to _goodnight_.


	6. Normalcy

Worf's sash knocks the table as he tries to manoeuvre himself into a chair, and all the senior staff look up from their panels to acknowledge him, all but Data, who has already assessed the sound, and discarded it as inconsequential.

"I apologise for my lack of punctuality, Sir,"

The Klingon addresses Picard directly, where he sits at the head of the table.

"There was an… issue, in the forward lounge,"

He explains delicately, and it is almost imperceptible to notice how his eyes shift fast to Deanna, and then away into his lap just as soon.

The Captain has not noticed this.

"Not to worry Mr Worf, we can start the meeting now that you're here,"

He nods to Data, who takes his cue and stands abruptly, activating something at his own panel; the table quiets.

"As requested, Geordi and I have completed a full and in depth analysis of the disturbance detected in the shield grid, at the same time as Counselor Troi's encounter,"

And this is what they are calling it now, Deanna herself sitting on Commander Riker's right, an expression of neutrality plastered expertly to her face.

The main viewscreen powers up in a series of complicated equations that attach themselves to a linear graph.

"It's taken this long to put it all together 'cause of some lost data on the mainframe, but once we recovered it we were able to put together this,"

Geordi says, still sitting at his own chair, but rocking on it so that he is facing outwards and towards the display he refers to.

"It is a comprehensive timeline for the specific points in the shield grid where disturbances were detected, across a span of approximately 15 minutes, including data relating to phenomenon detectable using external sensor readings,"

Data continues, pointing one of his long fingers towards the graph, where the points plotted continue to increase in frequency until disappearing completely.

"Our analysis has been unable to detect any bio-molecular reading from the energy form, but it does provide us a dimensional image of it, suggesting that at zero hundred and thirty hours, a spherical being of raw energy breached the outer shields with a diameter of one point seven nine metric units,"

The display changes to a mock up image of the energy being, and it seems rather much like the light Counselor Troi has been describing from the beginning.

"By zero hundred and thirty _seven_ hours, we can follow it's movements using the internal sensors, through a couple of crew quarters and a public bathroom, to the Counselor's bedroom,"

Laforge finishes off for them both, a team undoubtedly, and close enough to work by finishing the other's thoughts, a perfect friendship between man and machine.

They both turn in tandem to address Deanna, their expressions almost identical.

"It is exactly as Counselor Troi described,"

Data states with curiosity, as though he is confused that she had such a grasp on the situation before he did, the simple fact that she did not need all this technology to tell them as much.

"And we can be sure that these two events are linked?"

The captain queries, hopeful still that this all is one giant misunderstanding, a dream that he will soon wake from.

"A call was made to Doctor Crusher approximately two hundred and ninety five point five eight seconds after the energy being disappears from internal sensors,"

Data's explanation is crisp, mechanical, and terribly damning to any hope they might have had left. Through this, Deanna has remained silent, and under the table Will's hand has found its way atop her knee, rubbing over the fabric there in a soothing motion that perhaps is lost on her.

She seems light years away.

"I see, thank you Mr Data, Geordi,"

Picard nods thanks at them both, and the viewscreen dies into blackness again as the android retakes his seat between Worf and Laforge, the chair dipping its concession with a slight squeak.

"Well that sorts out the how, I suppose,"

Riker breezes, hoping to move this on quickly for the sake of Deanna if nothing else, her skin has become tense beneath his touch.

At least this time she has his solidarity and not his distance.

"So what do we have on the who, Doctor?"

He cranes his head around to address Beverly two seats down from him, who has flanked Deanna too in that same show of support, and perhaps also with that feeling she has been full of so much lately, that she must hover, in case something should go terribly wrong.

"Yes, well, I have the full genetic analysis back from Counselor Troi's amniocentesis yesterday, and the results are certainly confusing to say the least,"

"Doctor?"

Picard questions.

"I'm afraid I might be raising more questions than I'm answering, but I can say for the most part that this child is definately made from Deanna's DNA, it's just there's a single chain that the computers can't identify, there's no record of such a pattern anywhere in the data banks,"

Beverly explains, her eyes focusing more on the Captain than on the other three men across from her at the table, still uncomfortable that they have to have such intimate conversations in an open forum this way. Especially when an event such as this is under scrutiny.

"Are we concluding then that the lifeform is a hostile?"

Worf asks, breaking his own silence of thought in a way that can be trusted of him to do, thinking always of the worst case scenario.

"Absolutely not,"

Crusher tries to hold back on her defensiveness, but it is an arduous task.

"The genetic makeup of the foetus indicates to us that Deanna _is_ the mother, contributing almost 100% of her DNA which suggests a kind of asexual reproduction has been stimulated, only their patterns are not so identical as to suggest it is a clone,"

She sighs her frustration.

"It's incredibly difficult science to try to explain, I'm not even sure I understand it myself, but we can see from analysis that the child does have _two_ parents, _two_ contributions of DNA, however slight one may be, it's almost as though whatever this life form did -"

Her speech drops off for only one moment, her gaze flitting over to Deanna briefly, caught up on what _this life form did_ , everybody not wanting to really say it.

"It, uh, it mutated Troi's own DNA to donate a paternal half for the fertilisation of an egg containing the other half of the DNA, whatever the remaining nought point two percent is, that is the only part that is not related to Deanna in any way,"

Picard sighs.

"So you're saying that's negligible?"

He asks, confused.

"I'm saying -"

Beverly takes a steadying breath.

"Well, I'm saying we don't know,"

Worf's eyes draw themselves more narrowly into suspicion, as though he has been proven correct, but the Doctor is quick to clarify before he can say anything more to heighten their nerves.

"But all of our scans, all the data we've compiled, everything we've learnt so far is telling us that this is _just a baby_ , half human, half betazoid,"

She tells them definitively, but there is something of trepidation beyond her voice that only the Captain is able to catch, having known her for so long; Deanna can feel it instead in her mind.

They neither say anything at all.

"Do you perceive any threat here, to the Counselor or to the Ship?"

Worf asks, trying to keep himself away from the panic button, measuring his words with practiced diplomacy that he unashamedly has learnt from Deanna herself, in their shared time on the bridge.

Collectively, Riker, the Doctor and Geordi sigh at his efforts, the man clearly ignoring what it was said, his one-track mind fixed almost permanently on the things that would threaten his position.

"Not overtly, Lieutenant,"

Beverly tells him.

"Of course I have some concerns about the Counselor's health, but at the minute they're well managed, and I don't think we quite have a Sigourney Weaver situation on our hands here,"

She smiles coyly, attempting to lighten the mood, but her seemingly ancient reference is completely lost on everybody but Will, whose face contorts at the thought of it. He snorts, if only to signal that at least _somebody_ understood her, but the rest remain as blank faces around the table, and Data's eyes continue to scan left and right as he searches his data banks for the reference.

"Well, is it a boy or a girl then?"

Geordi cuts in jovially, his voice lightening up in some genuine joy at the thought of a child, especially one borne of someone so lovely as Deanna.

"No!"

The Counselor herself responds urgently, before Beverly's opening mouth can give anything away.

"I mean -"

She all of a sudden feels every pair of eyes on her, as though she has done something more incredible than simply call out after such a long time of silence. Every open eye is only for her.

"I do not want to know yet,"

Deanna explains, turning instead to Will, who is more keenly soothing the top of her leg, remembering their conversation the night before, how there had been so much she left unsaid, how even he had struggled to get any coherent reason from her - truthful or not.

"Of course,"

Laforge responds in good-humour, allowing himself not to be phased, trying to take the attention back from her sudden outburst, knowing all too well the creeping heat in the apples of her cheeks, the increase in her heart rate at the pulse in her neck.

These things that only he can see.

"Everybody loves a good surprise,"

He chimes, a broad smile made up of his face, and it is a strangely truthful thing to have come upon him.

"Indeed,"

The Captain adds, standing swiftly from his chair and rounding it to hang onto its tall back - an overly casual gesture, but a _gesture_ nonetheless.

"As long as you're feeling okay, Deanna?"

He turns more pointedly to her, emphasises that he cares only really for her, rather than whatever it is becoming of her. She smiles her usual grace, always a smile for _him_.

"Yes Sir, I am thank you,"

His eyes find themselves temporarily distracted by the vision of Will's hand on her thigh, but he is loath to linger, to rob her of whatever solace she may be able to find in all of this chaos; so long as nothing rash comes of this, he will leave it be.

"I'm glad to hear it,"

Picard looks away and up to meet the individual gaze of each of the senior staff.

"So long as nobody else has any further concerns?"

He is met by 5 shaking heads.

"Right then, we can move on,"

The chair is left swinging as he takes his hands away and walks further out in front of the table, addressing them all now as the leader in this new conversation, now that they can turn away from such a delicate conversation that he finds himself with little to add to.

"Astrometrics tells me that their scans of the nearby de Beauvoir Nebula are almost complete,"

Beverly, at the opposite end of the table, smiles softly at the endearing sound of his french accent, and for a moment, he is disarmed by the youth this makes of her.

"We should be on our way to Starbase 71 again by the end of the week, for refits under Admiral Kyoto, but in the meantime Mr Data has kindly offered to run a skeleton crew on the bridge this Sunday,"

Picard nods gratefully to the android, and a certain sense of anticipation rises across the table for what is about to be said, though they had expected as much.

"Which means I want you all to take the day off,"

He says with a broader smile on his face, and suddenly Geordi is whooping with his fist in the air, the lightest of them all.

"Nice one Cap!"

Laforge exclaims, and Will joins in the sudden joy, leaning over to pat the Captain's arm in thanks.

"Don't thank me Lieutenant, Mr Data organized the whole thing - he tells me his _observations of the crew indicate performance affecting fatigue_ , even I get the day off, thank God,"

He explains, pointing over to Data who sits with a bewildered expression on his face. At the mention of his name, he adjusts in his seat.

"That is correct sir, the recent events have caused disturbances in the crew, I believe a day off will be much welcomed,"

Geordi pats him heavily on the back, and his response is nothing more than continued confusion, though he smiles politely, as his subroutines have suggested he do, and the whole table is pleased to see it of him.

Will once again is rubbing at Deanna's thigh beneath the table, because she continues to feel self-conscious at the thought of how what has happened to _her_ , and arguable her alone, is affecting the whole crew in such a deep way.

The look Worf had given her when he spoke of an incident in Ten Forward is beginning to take on some other meaning.

"As long as there are no other issues then?"

Picard asks, bringing everybody's attention back to him and not on the various expressions that shift and change in patterns of joy and confusion around the table.

Again, they all shake their heads no, and so the Captains hands draw together in front of himself as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

"Then you're all dismissed,"

The chairs around the table roll smoothly back in a kind of strange unison, and it is Deanna and Will who are the first to leave, nodding their thanks once again at Picard, and trying to seem as though they do not move as a pair.

"Doctor Crusher, if I might have a word?"

He calls to her, when she is almost to the door herself, and so she steps back to allow Laforge, Data and Worf to file past her, a puzzled look on her face.

The door shuts, and Beverly walks over to where he stands still at the top of the room, holding off at a slight distance.

"Is something the matter, Sir?"

She asks him, keeping up the pretences by sticking with rank; a derision comes upon him.

"Beverly, please, I need you to tell me seriously if you think, personally, that this child could be hostile?"

The expression falls off her face.

"Jean-luc,"

She echoes this intimacy he has asked of her.

"You know I can't make a judgement like that,"

Beverly moves closer to him than before, puts a hand against his forearm where it is tensed in his anticipation.

"I'm a doctor, I'm thinking about what's good for Deanna, then for her baby, and then for the ship - but she comes first,"

He frowns at this, hoping she maybe could have offered him something more to think on.

"But if you had to, if you weren't her physician, if you were on the lower decks, what would you think of this?"

Her hand falls away from him quickly, she takes one single step backwards.

"I guess -"

She manages to say, making a concession that she wouldn't make for anybody but him.

"Well, I guess I'd be wondering _why her_?"

Picard tips his head a silent question.

"Data's graph showed us how that life-form travelled from room to room for almost _ten_ minutes,"

He is starting to understand.

"But it only took five seconds in Troi's quarters before it disappeared,"

Beverly runs a hand through her auburn hair, tousles it at its root where it is loose and clean, then fixes him with eyes that are frank, and only slightly scared.

"So I supposed I'd have to ask - _why her_ \- why her and not any number of other crewmen who were just as asleep, just as alone, and just as _female_ as her,"

She pauses her emphasis.

"Hell, I might even be thinking _why not me_?"

Picard takes his eyes away from her own, and down to his shining black shoes against the deck, wondering if this is a prevailing thought amongst them all, if maybe this is where the tension has come from.

"You're saying you would feel unsafe, aboard the Enterprise?"

He has it wrong, she is shaking her head slowly at him.

"No,"

Beverly clarifies.

"Not unsafe - _suspicious_ ,"

A beat.

"It was Deanna who once who told me, that of all the species she's worked with, it is Human's who fear the unknown the most,"

The memory makes a shiver creep along her spine.

"She said that it is only our fear that drives us to distrust, and _hate_ \- I'd never thought of us that way before but she's right,"

Picard fidgets his fingers together, moves a little on the spot to check his balance, trying to listen more than to break down at any number of realisations.

"And I think now, because of this, people are finding it easier to be suspicious of _her_ , because she was _chosen_ , and they don't know why,"

It all makes a terrible amount of sense, and he finally looks up at her, impressed maybe that he is not in fact speaking with a counselor, but with the doctor he has known for too long for both their good's.

"This is what's putting the crew on edge then, the fact that we _don't know_?"

Beverly nods at him her affirmation, then bows her head slightly as she makes to leave, having no more to say than what she has left him to think on; he makes no move to stop her.

She turns back at the door.

"If not knowing is doing that to the crew, then I'm sure you can imagine what it's doing to her,"


	7. Sunday

Time has passed in such a different way than it used to, fast and frantic and full of terribly slow moments of terror.

Will moved in, as he said he would, and the gentleman within him insists on sleeping on her couch, but she can feel that desire that is building slowly for more.

And it maybe would be easier if it was just sex,and he thinks about it so often that it could just be, if it weren't for the sound of him sighing at the sight of her curled on her bed reading, or tousling her damp hair in the evenings, humming some song he doesn't know. There is a desire that is not just physical, aching for longevity, for monotony, to be in awe, constantly, of superficial things.

It frightens her deeply, maybe even disturbs her, because he has felt this way before and he had still left, still walked away without any kind of proper explanation, leaving her alone and at a loss for what had made him leave.

Well, he had chosen his career, too enchanted by it to think he could have it all, which he could have, and now the look in his eyes tells her, before she even hears his thought, that he thinks he can have it now.

She tries her hardest to stop thinking about it, she really does, because it's all tying her up in knots, when all she has left of her evening is a session write up and a hot chocolate before bed, her empty dinner plate on the table in-front of her. He had cooked, said something about nutrition and the _baby_ , and his care has been pulsing through her ever since; she can scarcely hear a thing.

"Deanna? Hey, are you listening?"

Her eyes shift away from a spot on the wall and back into his own, startled.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry,"

She says with apology in her voice, very frantically trying to recall what he had been saying.

"I was just saying that it's good you weren't sick this morning, you think that means it's over now?"

"I had not noticed, it was difficult to make my body wake up properly,"

Will's eyes deepen, and he picks a napkin up to wipe the spaghetti sauce from his chin while he thinks for a moment.

"Did you mention it to Beverly?"

He asks, concerned.

"She said something about being in the 2nd quart, and how fatigue will probably just replace the morning sickness, but I'm not really sure, I did not ask."

He puts the napkin back down, watches as she takes a sip of her water and folds her hands in a knot on the tabletop.

"Well, I was reading about how, for human women, the second trimester is when morning sickness generally stops and you start getting more tired, as well as back pain as the baby grows, but I've heard a lot of women experience a kind of energy surge due to increased hormone production and -"

Deanna is laughing very quickly, but it is so quiet that it takes on that musical quality he admires so much, and his voice drops off into nothing in confusion.

He tries to alter his expression into one of disdain, but he hasn't the heart to take away from her moment of joy, and so instead he lets it play out across her face whilst he looks on in awe.

Eventually, she calms to a point where she can speak.

"You… have been _reading_?"

The simple incredulity is delightful in her voice, and Will's face splits into a smile, shy and sharing in her sentiment.

"Of course, the more we know the better,"

Deanna is still smiling, goofy almost and completely bemused, her eyes glistening with something that absolutely isn't humour. After a silence he cannot handle, he bursts out:

"What?!"

She takes a deep breath and brings herself slowly back into the room.

"It's just, you have been reading, when you did not have to,"

"Of course I have, how else am I gonna keep you healthy and safe through all this?"

It is her turn to be confused again.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?"

She tries to open herself out into a book, but she's never been much for legibility, or leaving herself so exposed to be hurt, given that there is enough in the world to feel of others without complicating that with her own.

She tries to make herself transparent, but she was not built to be seen through, and her living has been made in opacity.

"Deanna,"

Her name is enough to convey so much, but words have always failed him and so he hopes she can feel it strongly enough to know that he is shocked, and upset, and full of the sorrow of doves, trying so hard not to let it make his decisions for him.

"How could you think that? Can't you feel that I'm here, that I don't plan on going anywhere while you need me,"

Deanna shakes her head, because words have always failed her too.

"I know what you _feel_ Will, and I also know that feelings _change_ -"

She sighs, tears finding a way to hang from the corners of her eyes.

" _Your_ feelings have changed - in the past - and I do not want to be blindsided again, I won't be able to take it,"

He stands, a waffle dressing gown whipping up behind him, and any semblance of normalcy, domesticity, is gone from between them.

"Dammit Deanna!"

He is yelling so suddenly, her mind trying desperately to adjust to this new fire, and not let herself be consumed by it too.

"If you feel like you say you can then why can't you feel this? Why can't you see in me that _I_ _love you_ , that all this has shown me there is never a _right_ time, that you've been here all along? Why are you refusing to hear me!?"

He has large hands splayed out on the tabletop, and he is leaning down over the surface, trying his hardest to calm his voice, though it is loud enough that he can finally see tears in her eyes, a fine black lake.

Deanna stands sedately, and walks over to the viewport, no more nebula to light her up a thousand different colours, just stars and empty space, each with a name she doesn't know - and she is so very far from home.

"My father,"

Her voice catches,

"My father told me that I would be everything-"

She turns around to face him, and she is not glowing, she is barely even black and white; his eyes are so full of regret where he straightens himself up.

" _Everything_ , to the _right_ someone."

And she is a brutally soft woman.

Her words burn into him, like he just now is understanding quite what he's done to her, and all this time she has been holding back the urge to do it to him too.

She is so soft when she speaks.

"I wasn't _everything_ to you,"

Deanna can no longer even whisper, because words again are failing her, and her voice is all choked up in tears as she tries not to double over with the pain of her own sorrow, because it is ripping her into too many parts of herself.

He watches her, like she's moments from collapse, her face screwing up so that her eyes are barely open, crying now in less beautiful ways; he tries so hard to be sincere, now that his voice is lower, calmer.

"But _I love you_ , God help me I do,"

Will takes steps forward as he whispers into the dark shadow she has hidden herself amongst, approaching her like she's just a child.

"I made mistakes because I was young, and I was scared of how much I loved you, I would have done anything for you,"

 _*But you walked away*_

Her voice in his mind is a terrible dream he hasn't had for so long, and even there she sounds broken, fragmented, and in the world her eyes are boring into his own. He steps closer to her, tries to reach to take her hand, but she flinches away from him, the anger of his explosion still dancing over the surface of his skin.

"I walked away, because it was _easier_ than staying,"

He tries again to reach for her, and this time she pushes back into him, his arm looping around her slim shoulders where she is hugging herself, hunched and crying still, everything she feels just too overwhelming.

"I walked away because I couldn't believe I'd found you so soon - I didn't want to feel like the adventure was over,"

Her body shakes hard once with a greater sob, and he moves swiftly to engulf her completely, his arms warm and secure and shaking too with the force of her.

" _This_ Imzadi, _this_ is our adventure, and I'm so sorry I didn't see it before,"

One of the hands he had previously flung in anger against the tabletop, splays now with care over her stomach, the whole span of it covering where she is not the same, and his t-shirt that she's wearing hangs loosely.

Deanna is still crying in ugly ways, and she is beautiful, tucking herself up in his arms so that he can hold onto her tighter, so that she can be sure he will never let her go.

"I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm _right here,_ "

He repeats himself over and over, rocking her slightly in his arms where she turns inwards to him, her face pressed into his chest, the two of them almost as one person, with his chin resting in her hair.

For moments in time it is not silent, she's still sobbing and he is still trying to soothe her, and the two of them are still standing by the viewport, the universe _still_ moving on and on beyond them.

After a while she is completely silent, completely still, the ability of her legs to hold her up becoming no more, and he can feel that she can stand no longer. So he moves in one motion, his own murmuring quieted, and scoops her off the ground and into his arms again, like he has done too many times already, but now she is just marginally lighter, all this sickness having stolen her good health away.

Will carries her to where the sheets of her bed are already pulled back, and he lays her down gently in the dim light; her eyes, now that he can see them, are fluttering open and closed as she tries to fight against her sleep. Once he has tucked her in, he tries to leave, but, like before, her fingers are still clinging to his wrist, and she sends to him the word _stay_ , softer than before, like a gentle whisper in his mind.

So he stays, because he _is_ a gentleman, and the lady asked, and they've spoken too much of _love_ , and _loyalty_ for him to leave now when she has told him not to. Deanna rolls immediately into his side when he lies down beside her, and she breathes him in, tucks her body up to cling to him completely.

He plants a series of kisses in her hair, against her forehead, the apples of her cheeks, as her face looks up to him, and she squints through whatever she is feeling to try and make a logical, well reasoned decision. Somehow, logic has escaped her, and she tells herself that it is okay to be lead by her emotions, that being in control is not always enough.

And in the absence of reason, she take a hand and reaches up to hold fingers against his cheek, rough and coarse in his attempt to grow out a beard, desperately trying to be new for her. She pulls him down to her own face, and they are so close that she cannot focus her eyes, their noses graze against each other, he smells like spaghetti sauce, and orange juice, and his breath is hot and steady against her skin. All the air hangs still between them, their heartbeats rising into one, something which is nothing and also everything at the same time.

She moves, her lips parted and soft, to capture his own, everything quiet and slow and so heavily overdue that the need, the _necessity_ is like a fire - they both are catching alight.

If he were a better man, he maybe would pull away, but she is so sweet, and so brutally soft that he could never say no, and it has been such a terribly long time that even if he wanted to, _truly_ _wanted to_ , he couldn't pull away from her.

Will groans trying to hold back, trying not to let two years catch up with him too quickly, not to let himself be completely caught up in the moment and to take advantage.

* _Imzadi, relax_ *

Suddenly, he remembers why she was the only woman to truly make him feel in love, her mind so close to his own that maybe they could be one, if he wasn't so grounded by his own humanity.

Their kiss deepens, and his jaw finally untenses, _relaxes_ , so that he can continue to explore her as she has relished enjoying him, passionate yet lazy, familiar and easy: it is like lighting a candle where the wick has already been burnt.

She grabs a fistfull of his shirt, her hand no longer on his jaw now that his two have found her own, and she rolls onto her back, pulling him with her to lay atop her body, his elbows on either side of her shoulders propping himself up.

They seperate for only a moment, long enough for her to take a breath, to finally meet his eyes with a look of joy that he can only do so well to mimic.

* _I love you_ *

Deanna sends to him, her voice too far gone to say anything other than the gentle wheezing that follows her as she inhales, exhales, the exhilaration of being back with him when she was sure she never would be is so fresh within her.

"And I have missed you, Imzadi,"

He murmurs, then dips back down to capture her lips, steal her breath away from her again, then pull away just as quickly, pressing kisses instead against her jaw, littered against her neck, her collarbone where the baggy shirt has fallen away. He comes back up to her lips again, kisses her with more passion but just as briefly, then moves back down her body, repeating this until he is pulling the t-shirt over her head, and tracing kisses around her belly button, doing his best to worship her, to make up for everything he has done wrong, to heal every part of her that he has broken.

Her hands play in his hair, kissing the top of his head when he is closer, breathing more deeply the further down he goes, sending her reassurance to him in waves.

She tells him to go far, to not worry, that he won't hurt her.

She tells him, _please_ , to go all the way.

* * *

Two bodies wake in the early afternoon, on a starship sunday, in a mess of tangled limbs and discarded clothes, the sheets wound around them tethering them together.

She is laying on her front, and he on his back, the both of them naked and perspiring lightly, fabric strategically spread over his waist and then beneath her and around her chest, then back around over her hips where it ends.

In every way, they are entwined.

One of her hands is resting on his chest, small and tracing patterns onto his bare skin, playing lazily with the hair there. The arm that he is surrounding her neck with is bent at the elbow, snaking back around to twist a curl between his fingers, so much of her hair splayed out around her head.

They have been awake for hours, but it is a _starship sunday_ , and she so rarely has a chance to just lay still and peaceful, to feel loved and safe and contented all in one space. It's a terribly fleeting feeling, and so on this one day she is going to sit in it, relish it.

She feels her age again, feels like she's a year away from 25, and she doesn't have to think about getting married or having children or even just finding love, because it seems all these things have found her in some way or another, and whether they are permanent or _normal_ , she cannot know, but she lies, and she relishes.

And Will, well, he is just trying not to let his heart beat out of his chest with terror, with joy. Because at long last he has what he wants, and he doesn't have to feel guilty about it, but there is always that feeling that it might be too late, and so for the moment he too will lie, and relish.

Their day doesn't really start until 13:00 hours, when her stomach rumbles with such force he can feel it in his own, and he is hungry too. Gentleman as always, he makes her breakfast in bed, omelettes and orange juice, and they kiss some more, and she is naked and wrapped up in the blankets left behind, leaving Will to put on his discarded pajama pants then crawl in beside her.

She feeds him slices of omelette from the end of her fork, and very few words are exchanged at all, the two of them simply using the day for reparations, for a little bit of light in the midst of something dark. And when the food is gone the two just smile at eachother like teenagers, so he reaches for the book on her nightstand, and picks up where she left off, reading to her in a silly voice until she is giggling with delight at how he transforms a simple research paper into a tale of scandal, and deceit.

There is more kissing as he tries to inhale her laughter, and they soon are laughing lightly together, Deanna having snatched the pad from his hands and then rolling over to straddle him, the sheets bunching around her waist.

And she has never been embarrassed to be naked, especially not with him.

She shows him how she needs him, in a way she hasn't in a long while, and soon they both are sweating again, smiling still, finally at some point in their lives where they can just be young and silly and desperately in need of the other.

There is some more light napping, surrounded in twisted sheets and hot limbs, and then more lazy dozing with hands in hair and wound around further discarded clothes. Will's chest is heaving with some kind of strain, and she is sending him her thoughts, stray ones that make little sense to anybody, until he hears something of drawing, of how beautiful he is she wants to _draw him_.

Somehow the afternoon becomes a sitting, and after he hears her he replicates a pencil and a sketchpad, then sits across her in the bed, his legs crossed over one another stretched out before him, and she is sitting up eagerly on her knees, wearing his nightshirt like a dress, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

It has been so long since she drew anything that wasn't the waterfalls of Betazed, anything that wasn't the memory of something she desired, and now looking at the glee in Will's eyes as he makes lewd jokes about nude modeling, she feels that there is enough inspiration in her to draw the entire host of the Enterprise in one stroke.

His smile is disarming, and when she hands him the finished picture he mirrors it, and holds it next to his head, then down to his lap with raised eyebrows, pointing out where she has simply shaded in a concealing shadow. She laughs, and he laughs, before plucking the pencil from between her lips and flipping over the page, ordering her to sit still too.

Deanna crosses her own legs, in the baggy shirt, and tries her best to pull her messy hair into some semblance of normalcy, letting it fall in bedroom ringlets around her shoulders. She remembers how she was the one to teach him the simplicity of sketching, and how his lines were always a little too angular, and so she mocks him, pouts a little when he talks about the impossibility of capturing her true beauty when she is wearing clothes.

Will hands her back the sketchpad, the pencil tucked behind his ear, smiling coyly as she looks over his work with joy, because he has been _practicing_ , and her edges are soft and natural and the way half her face lies in shade is so startlingly beautiful that even she could cry.

Instead, she kisses him, and they spend some more time kissing deeply before _his_ stomach rumbles, and they two raise from the bed to go to the replicator, to argue over what to eat for dinner as if they have been doing it their whole lives.

She kisses him, and wins, then hands him his pants off the floor and laughs, ordering two meals out of the computer and even more orange juice, before he can again tell her all he has read on it's benefits in pregnancy.

Deanna smiles to the sound of smooth jazz, because he is wearing pants and hijacking her sound system, playing his own personal sound file of pieces she has heard him play, and has held in her mind ever since.

It is 19:30 hours, and they are making eyes over forkfuls of food, something betazoid and homely, _exotic_ , flirting over slices of purple fruit and mouths of starchy roots, baked and buttery and _delicious_.

She huffs, when she is full, and moves to tuck her bare legs up to her chest, her knobbly knees providing the perfect spot to rest her chin whilst she watches him curiously, taking in every movement of his like it's the last time. Will smiles over a mouthful of food, and she giggles her glee of feeling so uninhibited, not even having thought of the emotions of others all day, not having thought of the fear of dying alone, or having something she is unaware of within her. For the moment she is full, and loved, and healthy enough to enjoy the feeling, filled with the satisfaction of knowing she doesn't have to wait years to be with him.

Further time passes, and she refuses desert, maybe the only sign that this isn't normal, but he tries his best to ignore it, and instead stands, offers a hand to her when his favorite song plays, asks for _this dance_ , and she nods delightedly, stands with him, still wearing his shirt that hangs down to her knees, and he in only pajama pants, the two of them full of the romance of youth.

He directs her to stand on his feet, both of them barefooted and soon shuffling to the music, swaying together as one, Deanna so much shorter than him, even with the extra height, that his head rests atop her own, and her cheek is hot against his chest.

They dance slowly, until something just slightly faster plays, and she extends her arms straight down at her sides, their hands joined so that he can lift her upwards to twirl around together, and instead of landing back on the floor, she wraps her short legs around his waist, and kisses him, deeply, passionately, gleefully.

At last, they each have what they want, and so Will kisses her back, his hands moving to hold her up, on her bare backside, beneath where the shirt hangs down over her, and again he is carrying her to the bed, not for one moment taking his lips away from her own, knowing by now the path to her bedroom.

Every motion of the night is familiar, and easy, and so deeply pleasurable that it is fortunate her quarters are so isolated from others, so fortunate that they remained undisturbed for the whole day that they can relish the silence, the company of the other.

She had forgotten how vocal he could be, how human men needed to be released from the physical means of it all; and he had forgotten how she could squeal when he hit the right spot, how her toes would curl, how she sometimes needed reminding that _feelings_ weren't always _emotions_.

They continue to teach each other, to remind one another long into the night, and their _starship sunday_ has succeeded in reacquainting them, in setting them both alight, _on fire_ once again.

* * *

She is not fooled though, into thinking it would be easy, because the morning time comes too quickly, and Will is already gone from her side, leaving a note on the sketch paper telling her that there was an emergency in engineering, and he had to go so early that it wasn't worth waking her. She sighs, because his handwriting is squared and uniform, exactly what you would expect of one who has not spent his life working on some sense of individuality, who only can write because it was taught at the primary school he attended in Alaska.

Her fingers trace his words, and she can see the template he would have copied from, yet it is still sweet of him, and she cannot help but smile thinking things may not be perfect, but they could also be so much worse.

The computer tells her that Beverly will be around soon, and she is not due on the bridge until the afternoon, her morning largely full up with appointments for people whose problems seem relatively small in comparison. This is the first day that _somebody_ hasn't insisted on lightening her load, and though it isn't the busiest day she's ever had scheduled, it is definitely something she would consider _normal_.

She is naked still, but Will must have covered her up with the sheets he left behind him, because she is warm and swaddled in the soft fabric, something Betazoid and woven through with fibres of silver - something her mother had sent.

Will's pajamas are flung over the back of a rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom, another something built from the deep crimson wood of a Betazoid tree, a chair that has been in her quarters since she moved in, that she brought aboard from her own home on Betazed.

She would like to wear his shirt again, but it smells like the two of them together, sweat and sex, and she thinks maybe Beverly will notice that too easily. Deanna does not go out of her way to conceal her own personal life, but she is the daughter of a diplomat, and she is _discreet_.

With the blanket wrapped around herself loosely, she stands and tries to tidy the space, gathering her own bed clothes from the floor and the arm of the chair, as well as his, and dropping them into the recycler. She then wanders to the bathroom, the sheets falling away in a pile on the floor as the door shuts behind her, and she for once does not immediately move to crouch beside the toilet bowl, her stomach holding steady again for a third morning in a row.

The shower is warm, and she tries not to spend too long just standing in amongst all the steam, focusing instead on washing the dirt from her hair, the sweat from off her skin; it is cathartic, but she can't shake the feeling that she is only washing _him_ away from her.

There is the feeling of Beverly's thoughts being directed towards her, and she imagines that the Doctor is close by, the sound of her becoming loud in her own mind, and so she steps out of the shower, her hair damp and tightly curled, wrapping a towel neatly around herself.

Usually, the molecular dryer is too harsh for her, and she enjoys spending a little while just wrapped in a bathrobe and reading, but Beverly is getting close by, so she lets the computer evaporate all the water from her skin, then tries to decide which uniform she wants to wear for the day.

There is one blue science uniform, high collared and professional, tucked at the back of her drawers, and she thinks maybe she has been aboard long enough to experiment with something new - plus, it can be replicated in maternity sizes.

Beverly is very close now, she can almost hear her clearly, and as she affixes her pips and comm badge whilst trying to push on those regulation black boots, there is a chime at her door; without looking up, she orders them open.

"Morning Beverly,"

She calls out over her shoulder, reaching back up to sweep her hair into a ponytail and away from in front of her eyes, then turns brightly to face where the woman has come in.

The doctor blinks once, and she can feel the appreciation, the _jealousy_?

"Wow, you look great Dee, the uniform really suits you!"

Deanna waves her further inside, and smiles her gratitude as the doors close over, then sits obediently on the edge of her sofa as has been routine for the past week. The Doctor pulls out her tricorder and begins scanning, and there is a terribly self conscious silence.

"It is - tight,"

She tries to sound less unsure than she feels, given that it looks _so good_ on her, and she has been avoiding wearing it for such a long time, but Beverly just pulls away with her eyebrows raised.

"And when has _tight_ ever been a problem before?"

For a second this feels like gossip, and they could have known eachother for much longer than a year, but that is all it has been, and so Deanna follows the movements of the doctors hands as they make up a series of hypo sprays, and thinks of the right thing to say.

"Well,"

She begins, sedately moving her neck to the side to accommodate Beverly's ministrations.

"I believe _tight_ may fast be becoming a problem, now,"

Her mouth curls up in a humourless smile, fingers against her neck end their motions and move to sort the equipment away, and Beverly's eyes turn concerned.

"Actually, I'm not so sure,"

She says with professionalism, looking back to the readings on her tricorder.

"You've lost a significant amount of weight in the past week, we need to look at maybe implementing a diet plan,"

Deanna sighs, heavy and exasperated, though she knows people are just trying to do right by her decision.

"Is it not enough that Will is _cooking_ for me? He is already taking up space bringing a microwave oven in here, I would hate for him to think we need a hotplate too,"

Beverly ignores her childishness, used to the difficulties of treating a therapist, and instead smiles coyly.

"Ah, the good Commander Riker? I always knew there was something between you two,"

"You _knew_ nothing, Beverly"

They trade in suspicious looks, and Deanna's eyes say absolutely nothing at all.

"As long as he's looking after you, I suppose I have no complaints, though it would be nice to know _why_ he cares so much?"

Deanna swats the back of the woman's hand and laughs a little, rattling out that same answer she has been giving to anybody who asks.

"Will and I are just old -"

" _Old friends_ , I know,"

Beverly finishes with mirth.

"The only thing wrong with that is that you _aren't old_."

She continues, pointing a finger directly at the younger woman, wagging it light-heartedly.

"The captain and I are old friends, _you_ are very young, and Will Riker doesn't strike me as a man who forms more than _passing_ acquaintances,"

Deanna rolls her eyes, and stands along with Beverly who has packed away her med-kit, saying nothing to justify her response, but she follows the other woman's eyes to a spot behind the couch, where she has seen something to make her smile.

"Old friends?"

Crusher raises her eyebrows in the direction of a pair of boxer shorts, peering out from the underside of the sofa, and a deep shade of red creeps up Deanna's face, pushing her forwards and out of her quarters before the curiosity can kill them both.


	8. Quickening

He has moved in, _officially_ , and he is cooking for her, and sleeping in her bed, and taking showers in her bathroom, and picking up her clothes from the floor. It's wonderful, truly, but after a few days the novelty seems to have worn off.

Beverly is still harping at her to gain weight, but all she seems to do is lose more, and the Captain is doing his best to look the other way, not that there are any rules against their kind of relationship, but the situation warrants his discretion.

She is feeling very tired lately, not so much in her mind but in her bones, and the doctor estimates she is coming to the end of the second quarter, though she cannot be sure. Her uniform stopped fitting the day she wore it, her body breaking out in all the wrong ways, her belly becoming slightly softer, and sloping, and her shoulders, ribs and arms becoming bonier, harsher.

Will doesn't like seeing it happen to her, but there is little he can do to stop it other than memorise the recipes to all her favorite Betazoid dishes, for future reference of course, just so that he won't run out of ways to keep her interested. It seems these past few days she has been turning her nose up at everything, averse to even chocolate, _chocolate._

And if he wasn't concerned before.

The patients that she has been seeing are beginning to see the changes in her too, and often she finds herself having to field their questions, assure them she is well, and that she is not abandoning their treatment. She has already had to reassign two cases who couldn't handle the uncertainty - she wishes she could just do that for herself.

She takes a shower every night now, sometimes a bath, anything to soak her aching limbs, some way to smooth a herbal balm over the skin of her belly, to ease the itching of fast stretching skin.

She still hasn't spoken to her mother.

Will calls her name, and she reels out of her own train of thought, calls back to him that she's coming and takes her hands away from where they are resting uneasily over her stomach, the appearance of her belly taut and alien.

His t-shirt falls back down around her naked self, one of his academy sweatshirts that she had commandeered the second it seemed her stomach was becoming something other than her own, and her frame is hidden snugly within it.

The space beyond her bathroom smells peculiar, a scent she can't quite put a name on, sweet and sticky almost, hot like cooking food. Sure enough, he _had_ moved a hotplate into her quarters, and she emerges into the cloud of steam surrounding him, where he is wearing his own civilian clothes and an apron she had bought for him on shore leave once.

It seems like an awfully long time ago.

"What do you think of this for a change?"

Will comes towards her holding an alloyed spoon, one hand beneath it to catch any drips, and offers it to her lips. Despite where her thoughts have been sneaking off to, she finds herself smiling, because it seems he has finally had enough of the particular tastes of Betazoid cuisine.

It is hot, and the smell is very strong the closer it gets to her, but she can't deny the fact that her mouth is watering in anticipation.

Deanna laps the tiniest drop of sauce in her mouth, and he smiles with his grip steady on the spoon, one eye looking back at where the rest of the dish bubbles up.

"It's orange chicken, a _taste_ of the orient."

His eyebrows raise and he speaks in that way that he does, when showing her something she hasn't seen before, given that she's seen so much; and in her presence even he seems wise too.

"Well,"

She says, trying to sound enthused, but really honestly wanting nothing to do with _any_ kind of food, let alone something _foreign_.

"I prefer your Italian myself, but I'm sure this meets Beverly's dietary requirements just the same,"

She speaks dryly, then stalks off to sit at the desk in the corner, her hands finding the latest personnel report she has been writing up, dejected, discontented.

"Deanna, don't be that way,"

He chastises her, putting the spoon back down in the pan and turning down the heat a little, then he turns to face her, wiping his hands on the front of his apron.

Slowly, she looks back up to meet his eyes, and her hair is loose in front of them, damp and springing back tightly into curls; she presses the fingers of one hand against her forehead.

"You're right,"

She says,

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just tired,"

A hand absentmindedly finds its way to her stomach, and maybe she doesn't notice that she's doing it, but Will does, and he just nods then turns back to his cooking, not really having anything to say other than the kiss he will likely give her later.

The computer terminal lights her up as she starts typing some notes, and there is nothing more to say or do other than what they would in the absence of the other, and maybe that is the mark of a strong relationship. Her typing is slow, she thinks he may be strong, but she is not.

So when finally she finds herself with a fork in her hands, she doesn't quite have all the strength she needs to hold on tightly and chew through a meal she has no interest in. A _food aversion_ , the professional within her says, and she must remember to keep an eye on that, make sure it doesn't develop into a new neurosis.

Will watches her with an intense gaze, but she cannot even think about taking another bite, so she stands, feeling not even a little out of place in her own quarters, and tells him she's too tired to eat anymore.

He is disappointed, she can feel it inside himself as if the emotion is her own, yet she leaves him alone at the table, disappears inside her bedroom where it is dark, and too early for sleeping, but too late to be doing much else.

* * *

People can only meet you as deeply as they have met themselves.

She has just finished explaining this to an ensign who worries she may never find love aboard a starship, but in truth she's not sure she understands it herself. It has been her defining thought since becoming a professional therapist, since finishing her doctorate on Betazed, the one thing she repeats to anybody who needs to hear it, the nugget of wisdom that will go down with her name attached to it.

After all these years she thinks she's finally questioning it, but the woman, _Nan'ay_ , is talking again, so there is not time enough to think on it much more deeply.

"Maybe you're right, if I don't feel confident in myself, then how should I expect another woman to see me that way,"

Deanna just nods placidly, recognising the patient has reached their conclusion, and from here out the appointment is basically over. There is a peculiar feeling rising at her centre.

"I should stop measuring myself by how other people see me, that's no way to find love, if people want to project their own negativity on me then I should just move on, right?"

"As I said,"

Deanna begins, sighing as she stands, the pleats of the slightly larger uniform tunic falling into place neatly.

"There's no need to measure the success of your life by the longevity of any relationships you have had. People have a way of finding each other, when they are needed, I really don't see any reason for you to be concerned."

The Bolian woman stands too, and there are only two years between them, the ensign concerned about love and destiny and Deanna younger, and unconcerned with any of these things. She wonders if this is what she has to look forward to, if Will should leave.

"Thank you Counselor,"

Nan'ay's eyes cast downwards briefly towards her stomach when she speaks, and Deanna is all of a sudden very self-conscious, the feeling again churning within her, alongside the curiosity, the _pity_ , that is being projected towards her.

They hug very briefly, maintaining some sense of personal space, and then the ensign leaves, back to engineering, or straight to lunch, she is unsure, yet she relishes the moment the doors shut, and she can fall back against the sofa, that peculiar feeling is still humming within her.

The curiosity she had sensed from Nan'ay is not gone, and somehow it is almost as if it is her own, because it is buried so deeply in her that she cannot possibly root out it's source.

Then, there is a moment of complete concentration, still not her own, and slowly something more is happening.

Turbulence at her core, deep in her stomach, like she is hungry, but full already, and a gasp when she finally realises what she has been feeling. All the breath is gone from her lungs, and she tries with desperation to make up for its loss, but it is of no use.

Very quickly she is struggling for oxygen, and she heaves in once, trying so hard not to become frantic, knowing the feeling of panic that rises within her so well, only this time it is not second hand, it is hers alone.

Air is lodged in her lungs, and she cannot force it out; she thinks finally she may understand how it is that people can devolve with such immediacy, that even she could not have seen coming.

There is nobody nearby who will hear her, because all the doors are closed, and she is the _only_ empath aboard, and there are invisible hands gripping her neck - she is choked up on the feeling.

Her office is very suddenly too small for her, the walls heavy, oppressive, and closing in, the air thinning until it is gone. Hands grasp at her chest, the collar of her uniform tunic where it raises around her neck, the tops of her legs when she leans forward to hold her head between them, frantically recalling years of medical knowledge she has never needed.

She needs it now, she needs help, but despite all the desperate movements of her hands, they seem to be unable to get near her comm badge, to call for help, and even if they could she doubts there is breath enough in her body to make even one word.

A chime, at the door, and she's no idea who it is, can't even see beyond her own thick smog of terror to feel a single sense of self from the individual, and she starts awkwardly gagging on how big her tongue has become in her mouth, as she attempts to force herself to speak.

It doesn't work, and she is sobbing, hacking, her desperation rising like a great tsunami within her, and she worries the person will leave, and there will be nobody nearby to watch her die. Instead, the walls seem to back off a little, to absorb the sound of her frantically beating heart, and the computer says something that she can't hear over the sound of rushing blood in her ears, and the doors open wide.

"Counselor Troi, I was hoping we might -"

The captains jaw falls slack when he sees her, slumped on the sofa in the middle of her office, a scattering of data pads on the floor at her feet, hands clawed and scratching her neck, her chest, the woman's entire body heaving, red faced and full of terror.

He tumbles further inside the office, already reaching for his comm badge, but her voice, raspy and finally able to break out of her chest, stops him as he kneels at her feet.

"No - please, Beverly - will know,"

Deanna waves a tingling hand towards her chest, then in the direction of the computer, suggesting that the Doctor is still monitoring her vitals, but Picard is not so sure.

He places both his hands squarely on her knees, tries to make eye contact like she would do for him, only her eyes are darting back and forth, blinking profusely.

"You need to _breathe_ , Deanna,"

He says with authority, with care, then he drags in a steady and deep breath, slow and long and exaggerated.

"Like this,"

Then he exhales deeply, slowly again, from his mouth, a technique he has seen her use once on an ensign with a fear of fire, _last_ time his bridge almost blew up. Realising where his thoughts are going, and that she will invariably have noticed too, he tries instead to think of France, and horses, Dixon Hill and pencil cigarettes.

She follows him eagerly, her eyes finally finding focus in his face and widening as she bends her body to his will, forces herself to accommodate such large drags of air, forces herself to wait and not hurry.

There are minutes of this, Picards steady breathing and her efforts to mimic it, increasing in their synchrony until they may as well be breathing as one, though she is still trembling, her hands still tingling, and her face flushed crimson.

She's surprised, now that she can sense him with more clarity, that he is not embarrassed, because the personal aspect of Captaincy has never been his cup of tea, and these kinds of intimate moments are the exact reason he is averse to counseling in general. He is like a nervous little boy usually, but somehow something else has been brought forward.

He still holds his hands over her knees, only now the thumb of one hand is smoothing up and down slowly, against the fabric of her uniform trousers, and he too is thinking that he maybe should feel more self-conscious, that it is peculiar of himself to not feel horribly out of depth in such a situation.

"Deanna?"

Picard calls her by name, and he thinks maybe that she inspires in him the desire to be _more_ , to be _better_ , to act in a way that is intimate and caring and something he ordinarily would run from.

"I think you've had a panic attack,"

His voice is soft and concerned, and she is breathing now on her own, more regularly, but still raggedy and harsh.

"Are you feeling okay, did something happen?"

Deanna's eyes bulge a little, and her hands move from the tops of her thighs to encompass the two sides of her growing stomach, the blood flow restored to all her limbs and every sensation sharp and clear again. Recollection serves her too well, and her breath hitches again.

Her voice, shaky still, but present, is hoarse when she speaks.

"It - is _moving,_ "

Captain Picard blinks once, his confusion turning him into somebody he doesn't appreciate, somebody hideously _unprepared_. At a loss for her meaning he follows instead her actions, tries to _be_ her, to understand how it is she is so understanding; it is an impossibility.

He sees her hands covering her middle, realises how little he's really been noticing her lately, so consumed by his own concerns for the ship, the _mission_ , that he maybe hasn't taken any time to look at her, to listen to her. Now it is, that he sees a child truly is growing of her, and he cannot fathom why.

" _Moving_?"

His voice lingers on the consonants, stretches out the vowels, and he pulls his hands away from her knees to try again at his comm badge.

And again she stops him.

A gasp, her knuckles becoming whiter in her shock.

"Counselor?"

He has returned to title, to formality, and she can feel further panic rising once again within herself, she tries hard to grasp onto his calming self, a man she has not known for as long as she feels she has.

"It is becoming _real_ ,"

Her eyes have begun to squint her tears, and she's doing her best effort to maintain contact with him, but the feeling at her centre is becoming stronger, she can no longer deny what it is.

Picard throws caution to the wind, cringes at himself, at how terribly _unprofessional_ this is, but she is an exceptional woman, and if he owes her anything then it is this.

Large, one of his own hands joins hers over her stomach, tentatively, unsure, but there nonetheless, and he waits with patience for seconds, until he can feel it too, equal measures disturbing and wondrous.

He turns to look up into her eyes, awed.

"The child is _kicking_ ,"

* * *

He stays by her side for a lot longer than she thinks makes him comfortable, but somehow inside him he is not feeling displaced, he is just calming, and impassive - _companionable_.

Her own breathing has calmed, but she is still a little uneasy, and Beverly never came.

She wonders if this is what he is waiting for.

"Could I tell you something?"

Softly, his voice undertakes to begin conversation, a question that he isn't really asking, a story he desires to tell.

Deanna nods, looks over at him from the corners of her eyes, where he has moved to sit beside her.

"When I was told I had to appoint a Counselor to the bridge of this ship, I thought it was just another bit of Federation bureaucracy,"

Picard pauses, because she is smiling fondly at him; she has always known this.

"I don't even think I reviewed your file when I chose you, there were letters of recommendation from Admirals I admire and that was enough. I didn't want to have to spend very long looking,"

There is remorse within him, her smile seems to fade and she had thought this to have been the case.

"Sometimes I worry I made the wrong decision,"

He says, full of a terrible regret, a sadness, and she can feel this in him as in herself like a phaser blast, like a lance. Here is something she did not know; how strange it is to be caught off guard.

She is perhaps too weak to say anything at all.

"After seeing how you were affected at Farpoint, I thought maybe you were too young, that the recommendations had been falsely written,"

He seems to fuss over the memory, as though she is always in that same amount of pain, excruciating but with no point of origin. She recalls the moment too, and it just might be that she is always in that same amount of pain, always _now_.

Picard looks sidelong over at her, shifts a little to turn into her, another something he imagines she might do for him.

"You were just in so much pain, and too young, far too young,"

Sadness has begun to crease his face more deeply than before, and suddenly, he is speaking more quietly; it would be difficult for her to hear, if she weren't hearing him in her mind also.

"I - didn't even know you were empathic, I hadn't taken the time to _learn_ ,"

She thinks he might start to weep, and if his emotions were anybody elses, she is certain they would, but he is still captain, _after all_.

He straightens himself up slightly, clearly reaching a change in mood of his monologue, and for a moment, it's like he isn't even in the room.

 _He is so confused, the day he meets Mrs Troi, thinking he'd have the enjoyment of another deep accent, maybe thicker, maybe a little hard to follow._

 _But she is an American, and if her eyes weren't so black, her hair so big, he might be able to believe she is simply human._

 _Deanna has spoken always with elegance, with delicacy, her words carefully measured, calculated and meaningful. When her mother speaks, it is somehow blunt, somehow short, somehow lacking in any deeper sort of truth._

 _The young Counselor is in a turbolift with him, at some point before her mother leaves, and he just knows she can hear him, his mind in its confusion._

" _My mother does not speak the federation standard - for telepaths, there is no language in one's mind, only meaning."_

 _Her eyes are dark too, where they see into him._

" _She speaks with the translators, and that is why you cannot hear anything of myself in her voice."_

 _He looks shocked, as if he never really read her file in the first place, never really cared much further than a letter of recommendation from the Royal College of Betazed, didn't even really consider much more than her rank and a blank expression through his viewscreen._

" _I do not employ their use, I find so much to be lost in the translation."_

" _I always thought -"_

" _I know,"_

 _She smiles, leaves, great sweeping movements leading her down the corridor in a flurry, light and silken material, native to her homeworld._

 _Her mother told him she sends her fabrics on transport ships, and somehow the girl spirits them into her quarters, and reappears again in some gown, or new uniform style, or even some delightfully sweeping dress, made with skill and long hours alone with nobody's thoughts but her own._

 _He thinks maybe he should speak with her more often._

Deanna inhales sharply, and her lungs _ache_ with the strain, his memory as clear to herself as it is to him, the two of them sharing in it in the most peculiar way. He blinks, and looks over to her, no idea that she was right there with him, even if only for a moment.

"I have underestimated you, _Deanna_ , time and time over, and I am terribly sorry for having done it again,"

Picard utters, lowly, but with some kind of compassion that she rarely sees in him; it is refreshing to know that he is capable.

"You're very easy to care about, to want to protect, and _shield_ , and in doing this I have lost sight of the fact that you're here with a job to do, just as we all are,"

He moves his hand to rest on the sofa cushion next to her leg, close enough for contact, but only if she reaches for him - a half commitment.

Deanna is having difficulty following his thoughts, it seems he himself doesn't know where he is heading.

"I've been using you without thought, letting you be my humanity, my _conscience_ , telling myself that your job is easy, when all this time we've been leaning on you so heavily that you've no choice but to hold us up,"

Sadness, once more has coloured him something dreadful, and there is something swelling in her chest, maybe like pride, but she cannot be sure, cannot know if this is a conversation he will forget in a few months, and it all will go back to how it was.

"You are an _exceptional_ woman, and I think now it's time to let _us_ hold _you_ up."

Her lungs empty in one instant, his sincerity so sharp that he might as well have just pierced her, left a puncture wound in her skin and the air would have rushed out all the same.

He seems to have set himself into a grim line, but there is loving behind it, and she can _feel_ how he has begun to think of her - fatherly, _awed_. Hands inch closer again towards her, because she has begun to sag slightly further against him, and he thinks maybe he can allow himself further moments of weakness, to shuffle to her side and hold her body against him.

Deanna is encircled by his arms, and it is a terribly peculiar feeling, but somehow she feels it to be long-overdue, something which has been brewing, restrained only by a row of pips and their relative security.

He might only hold onto her for moments, she isn't sure, but his fingers tighten and squeeze her shoulder, then he tenses and leans even further to lightly press a kiss against her forehead, desperately wanting to live up to this role he has fashioned himself into, to be _different_ , to be more than he has been before.


	9. Home

He had not held her for long, and surely that is a good thing, and instead of accompanying her to lunch, he walked her to sickbay, had a stern word with Beverly in the privacy of her office, and though she couldn't hear a word he said, she felt in the both of them a deep shame - a terror.

Beverly then had examined her, while the Captain returned to the bridge, and explained that sickbay had been so busy, that the link to her vitals was weak because of some kind of ionic storm they were traveling through, that she is _sorry_ , and _it won't happen again_.

Now she finds herself with orders to _relax_ , which really does seem impossible, and she counters that request with one of her own, a desire to just spend the evening on the bridge beside the Captain, nearby Will without being smothered by the love of him.

So she is - sitting on the bridge - and her heart rate keeps picking up slightly, each time with a little less surprise when the child moves, enjoying this new skill it has acquired, and though she is not yet _fond_ ofit, she thinks maybe it might be time to find out if it is a boy or a girl, if only to stop calling it _it_.

She gets a message from Beverly on her side-panel, amongst a series of half completed crew evaluations and the current status of the escape pods, asking her if she's okay, now that the Captain has struck the fear of God into her, to diligently monitor her vitals.

Fortunately for Deanna, she never was a god-fearing child.

She thinks of this then responds, types out:

 _Yes, everything is okay_.

Somewhere, on the other side of the ship, she can feel that there is a memory brewing, something being thrust forward into recollection, and it is not her own, but she feels it with the same intensity as if it were, only from a different point of view.

 _Beverly follows the girl into her quarters, the hour before a poker night that has been arranged by their first officer, an over-zealous man if she ever saw one, and he reminds her a lot of the man that Picard once was. The girl is another deal entirely, and maybe Beverly is being old-fashioned, jaded even, but it seems that she is just simply too young to be on the bridge._

 _A_ _ **lieutenant**_ _, nonetheless._

 _The doors shut behind them, and in the two months they have been aboard, this is the first time she has interacted on such a personal level with the Counselor, aside from such conversations about certain crewmen, or a physical exam that she has still yet to attend._

 _Pink lights softly illuminate the space, tenderly, the whole area aglow and somehow conveying a delicately balanced sense of calm, if of inanimate objects such a thing is possible. And then, the surfaces all seem bare, a terrible contrast to the consideration put into the atmosphere, the slightly lowered temperature, the smell of some kind of flower she cannot name, and everything else is strangely_ _ **spartan**_ _._

 _It is peculiar to say the least._

" _I hate to ask,"_

 _Deanna starts, turning around to face the Doctor, finally some conversation brewing between them._

" _But poker is a game of emotions, yes?"_

 _Beverly considers this for a second, frowns a little for thinking too hard on it, when the answer really is very simple._

" _Yes, in a way, I suppose it is, more-so for an empath I'd imagine, but the human thrill of the game is about fooling the other players,_ _ **bluffing**_ _,"_

 _She says, transfixed a little by how, in front of the couch before her, Deanna has begun to take down her hair, slowly unloosing it from the severe bun it had been tied up in, letting ringlets of sleek black hair fall free of their silver twists, and using delicate fingers to extract the jewels from around her crown._

" _I see,"_

 _She meets Beverly's gaze, her hair almost completely freed and tumbling down to the small of her back, long and sheer and shining black. The girl is a most peculiar combination of opacity, and transparency. Perhaps she never was meant to be seen through._

" _You wanted to borrow a dress, considering it is the commanders birthday?"_

 _Gracefully, Deanna changes the subject, saving Beverly from the embarrassment of lingering too long in her awe, in the ambiguous sexuality of a Betazoid, maybe even just of_ _ **her**_ _. The doctor just nods, and so Deanna begins to delicately unzip the back of her own leotard-like uniform, revealing sheer shoulder blades and a smooth, unblemished back, with every inch further her hands travel._

 _Beverly swallows, not sure if she should be looking away or not, feeling uncomfortable, but she takes the cue from Deanna, who seems not to be concerned at all about being so exposed, about being_ _ **naked**_ _._

 _And this is such stark contrast to the insecurities of most 23 year olds, of_ _ **herself**_ _at 23._

" _I have a lot of spare fabric you can look through, I'm afraid most of my dresses will be too short for you, but the patterns are saved in the computer if there is a specific style you were thinking of,"_

 _She calls over her shoulder as she disappears into her bedroom, stepping out of her uniform completely just before she is shielded by the darkness, leaving it behind on the floor. Beverly is having a little bit of trouble understanding the girl, but she continues to try, shaking away how her thoughts are becoming caught up in any number of questions._

 _She moves further inside to sit on the edge of a futon, a silvery blanket draped over its side, and thinks back to the first time they had ever met._

 _There was a function in the Ten Forward Lounge, celebrating the launch of the flagship, introducing the new crew a few weeks before they would be departing the dry-dock, Beverly herself due to return to Farpoint the next day. Deanna had been mistaken several times for the daughter of a crewman, being so small and young in the face, but it was the dress she wore that clued Beverly into something more. Her entire back was exposed, all the way down to the crevice of her spine, just before revealing too much of herself, and there was a spun silver chain connecting the very deepest swell of fabric to a collared necklace that was wound once around her neck._

 _The front of the garment had been plunging too, almost down to her belly-button in two halves of cream coloured silk-like fabric, joined at a point by one single lavender jewel. It was not a gem she was familiar with. A very daring outfit, perhaps for a human woman, but this was_ _ **Deanna**_ _, and maybe she hadn't realised what that meant at the time, but the doctor is slowly beginning to understand._

 _Deanna reemerges from her bedroom, wearing a much simpler dress, a kind of delicate grey bodiced number that does not quite reach the ground, but still leaves the majority of her back exposed._

 _Beverly supposes this must be a Betazoid thing._

" _I was hoping for something simple?"_

 _She says with some sort of flapped desperation, feeling now a little out of her depth._

 _Deanna smiles knowingly, disappears once more then reappears just as quickly, brandishing a flowing length of emerald fabric, playing it between her fingers like it is water._

 _On her way over to where Beverly sits, she picks up a data-padd that had been sitting on the coffee table._

" _Here are a few patterns I think would suit you exquisitely, and this is a kind of woven material made from the silk of Betazoid Meshi - they produce a very rare synthetic silver fibre which changes colour relevant to the creatures diet, this Emerald I believe will best bring out your eyes,"_

 _She suggests with modesty, gesturing first to the data pad that Beverly takes gratefully from her, and then to the sweeping bundle of fabric she carries still in her arms._

 _There is much gratitude within Dr Crusher, unused to the refinery of Betazoid culture, to the indulgences they seem to live their lives in, and again this is another contrast she finds within Deanna Troi, something which the girl accepts, delights in, and yet at the same time she is sparse, and utilitarian._

 _The evening is full of contrasts, of dualities she thinks she never will understand._

Deanna sighs, the memory a lot more gentle than the last time this happened, and if people weren't thinking so directly of her, then it wouldn't be possible at all, only there are so many moments that people don't even realise they are capable of projecting.

The artlessness of humans.

Picard demonstrates the greatest emotional control of all the crew, and yet even he had swallowed her with his memory, ungainly and incapable, entirely accidental in every projection of thought. They are a species that likely will never evolve telepathy, the two so incompatible it would likely destroy them, as the scholars of Betazed had believed it would destroy _her_.

Will glances side-long over at her, apparently having noticed her moment of absence, and he dips his eyebrows in question. She smiles gracefully back at him, turns to face where the captain is standing at the centre of the bridge, his body open to the image of an admiral on the viewscreen.

"And what is your ETA Captain?"

Admiral Kyoto asks from his seat at the operations centre of Starbase 71, and she remembers now where it is they're heading, why she has been thinking of home.

"Mr Data?"

The android's answer is sharp and delightfully predictable of him.

"The Enterprise will enter synchronous Orbit in 17 hours, 23 minutes and 12 seconds, Sir,"

The admiral tries not to respond with irritation at the answer of a machine, but the expression on Picards face is one of pride, and so the older gentleman knows not to let it show in his voice.

"Excellent Captain, our engineering team will be ready to beam aboard at 12:00 hours tomorrow, the refits will likely take two or three days - your crew is welcome to enjoy the recreational facilities aboard the starbase in the meantime,"

He is smiling tightly as he speaks, clearly unenthused at the idea of having the Enterprise docked for longer than a few hours, given her reputation for finding trouble, and even though Deanna cannot sense such a bland individual from such a great distance, she is sure that dread is churning inside him.

"Thank you Admiral, I'm sure my people will be grateful for the opportunity - Enterprise out,"

Picard responds with the same kind of tight smile on his face, _damn bureaucracy_ , and turns to Worf to cut the feed, his face falling away into a tired grimace when the viewscreen goes blank.

"You must remind me, number one,"

He says, moving to sit back in his chair, pulling down his uniform tunic as he goes,

"Never to accept a promotion,"

Riker chuckles a little, nods in solidarity.

" _Aye Sir,_ "

There is a lighter sense of humour enveloping them all, as the hour ticks over silently into 17:00, and Deanna takes her turn to share in the mood, gently tapping the arm of her chair.

"As your counselor I would also be obliged to advise against that, if you wish to retain your personality, that is,"

She jokes coyly, and he turns to laugh lightly at her words, at the sight of a smile creeping up across her face, charming and genuine; he pats the top of her hand fondly, then matches her expression with a wry smile of his own.

"I'll be counting on that, Counselor,"

Data turns around in his seat, a confused look forced upon his face, full of all the wonderment of a child. He is likely logging the conversation in his data banks, setting it aside for later analysis; it is something he will question her about at some obscure point in the future.

Deanna smiles: she looks forward to it.

* * *

Starbase 71 is a relatively new construction, located in the Beta Zeta system, orbiting the furthest of the 7 moons of Betazed, the one known as _Yareakh_.

The Betazoids had been resistant to the development of a starbase in their planetary system for such a long time, given the difficulty that comes with having so many non-telepaths nearby on a permanent basis, but in the end they had given in, due in part to the rising tensions with the Romulans pushing further along the Neutral Zone.

The Federation hadn't realised that Betazoids don't require physical armament to defend themselves, though they had allowed them to believe that they are defenseless, and weak, even when they are not, having survived as an isolated population for so long, it being easier than explaining how they had done so.

But that is another story.

Deanna had checked with the Embassy on Betazed before asking for shore leave, just to be sure she wouldn't have to try and explain all _this_ to her mother, and fortunately Lwaxana will be away for another week, long after the Enterprise will leave the system.

Beverly had raised few concerns, given that Deanna was essentially just _going home_ for a little while, and though Will is only allowed to join her for one full day, and the evenings of the other two, she was initially unconcerned that she would be alone.

After all, it is a planet of telepaths.

But as Picard and Crusher wave away Will and Deanna on the extended range transporter pad of Starbase 71, they both can't help but feel envious, maybe nervous, maybe even as though they are letting control slip from their fingers.

The planet that rematerialises in front of her is exquisite, the sky a beautiful deep indigo as the afternoons of the third season grip the continent. The Fifth House stands elegantly in amongst a series of tall and almost black barked trees, and rain begins slowly to drizzle down, sweet smelling and soft against her skin as she walks ahead, leaving Will slightly further behind her to carry their bags.

Everything is still as she remembers it from 2 years ago, and she is glad that Will never came here before, instead spending most of their time at a cabin near Lake El'Nar, or his quarters at the Starfleet barracks on the central continent.

This place is entirely her own, and the door opens, heavy and wooden, in response to her dermal scan, immediately warmer and impossibly more inviting than the wilderness outside. Will is impressed by it all, as the doors shut behind him and he drops the bags at his feet in the hallway, gazing up at the tall and finely sculpted ceilings. There are waves of awe coming from him, and so she turns around to look into his eyes.

"This is not called the Fifth House for nothing, Will,"

Deanna says, smiling sweetly, and he remembers vaguely how she had told him of its history, how it is one of a series of households almost 1000 years old, the structure itself equally as old - a testament to the longevity and continued peace of the Betazoid people.

She leads them through into the sitting room at the front of the house, where a large, wooden armed sofa sits in the centre of the room, inviting and homely, an opulent rug beneath the low wooden table that sits before it.

Some creations are universal, Will thinks, watches as she lowers herself awkwardly into the cushions, sighing when the pressure is taken away from her spine.

She has just begun to experience back pain, amongst a dozen other things.

He takes a moment to look up at all the walls around them, and follows how the three closed sides of the room are formed entirely as shelves, all kinds of coloured and bound books leading the line of vision all the way to a large bay window. It is stained lightly white, and this causes the lush scenery beyond to take on the quality as though it is being seen through a veil, looked at in a dreamscape, as opposed to the kind of clear reality many people are driven to insanity by.

Deanna is staring straight ahead, through the veil, her eyes deep and dark, and perhaps greater than any ocean he has ever come upon.

Her silence terrifies him.

The whole planet, in fact, is so deeply silent that even the animals seem to respect it, and he wonders if maybe it is not so quiet in her mind as it is in his, if maybe she is having any number of a thousand different conversations while he looks on dumly.

She twists her neck to face him, to watch where he stands taking in everything around him, and this is only the first room he has seen.

"You can feel free to look around, I think in particular you will enjoy the kitchen, but there are many rooms upstairs also,"

Deanna offers, waves one hand to the stairs across the hallway, behind him where he blocks the door, then she pulls one of the cushions surrounding her and tucks it in behind her head.

Will frowns

"Are you not going to give me the grand tour?"

He asks playfully, but he can tell by the exasperated look she hands him in return, that this is not a very likely eventuality.

"I think I would just like to sit for a while - _listen_ ,"

He nods at her as she turns back to face the window, thinks _listen to what_ , but there is a clear change in her coming home that he can't put a finger on, and so maybe there _is_ something to listen to, something _healing_ , and he is just too closed to hear it.

Will swings on his heel, leaves her where she sits with her eyes slipping closed, and turns left further down the hallway, towards the back of the house and through a door that leads him into the kitchen she had told him about.

There is no replicator that he can obviously see, and the whole layout of the space is very peculiar to him, so used to the conventional appliances of Earth that he begins to feel terribly out of place. In the very centre is an island counter, the top of which is matte and smooth, and as he comes closer he sees that it is carved of some mineral he has never seen before, similar to granite only in that is is delightfully marbled, but it is somehow translucent and reflecting back the lights in a thousand different shades of grey and green.

Above the island is a series of hooks that hang from the raised ceiling, the ends of which are draped in raw herbs and certain dried roots, a few of which he can name, but the majority a mystery.

He continues forwards and closer to the main row of counters on the far right wall, and there is a large archway in place perpendicular to this, through which he can see an entirely glass ceilinged dome of a room, in which a large table runs from end to end, 12 seats finely carved and gathered around it.

Turning his attention back to the worktops in front of him, he fingers the surface and skims down along until he meets a large stone column, the imposing main feature of the kitchen, reaching up and through the ceiling, and coming to a horn like opening at its base, full of lumps of clean coal and wood logs.

The child in him absolutely _cannot wait_ to try to cook with it.

The rest of the house is much the same, another lounge like-room, only smaller and more intimate looking, a few boxes of old child's toys carefully arranged within sight but out of the way of a large fireplace at its centre. There is also a kind of utility room, infinitely more modern looking, containing refrigeration units, recyclers, washer-dryer units, and a replicator like appliance, not starfleet issue but likely just as functional.

The stairs, he finds, wind a little at the top and open out into a sprawling landing, a long corridor immediately that runs alongside a banister and ends in a floor length window at the front of the building. It is joined further along by a second corridor, and all the walls seem to be broken up by doors and portraits, a few individuals he does recognise - Lwaxana, Deanna and Ian - and many more he does not, older looking but with that characteristic thickly curled Troi hair.

Will decides to pass by the rooms clearly designated to Lwaxana and Mr Homm, but he finds himself caught in his tracks when he comes upon a door that is slightly ajar, and within he finds something he could scarcely have anticipated.

The two exposed walls are made up from entirely glass panels, and the whole of the lower continent can be seen from them, up until where the land is swallowed up by the ocean, dense evergreen trees in different shades of brown and red, and sprawling fields of dark blue grass, where the colder season has altered the shade.

The space itself is almost a perfect square, and it is in a state of disarray that is not consistent with the rest of the house, a few stools at different points around, with sheets of parchment and wooden storage boxes atop them, shorter than he maybe would expect and standing on 6 intricate legs.

Equally short and dispersed in the space, are three wooden stands, most closely resembling artists easels, only standing lower to the ground, relevant to the stools, and supporting a more flexible backing that holds up sheets of parchment with fluidity, rather than the rigid wooden backing he might have expected.

There are paintings all over the floor, any number of sheets that are half finished in different colours of wax and oil pastels, different kinds of pigments than he has no names for, a whole other form of art that is disturbingly beautiful. The majority on the surface are all of the scenery beyond the window, in richer green colours of summer, but a few catch his eye, and he bends down to pick one of the sheets up.

At first glance it is another oil painting, of the waterfalls at Janaeryn, but behind all the deep shades of midnight blue and grey the water runs in, there are other images hidden within it, at the swell of the lake; the colours have run off the parchment before properly drying, and a face is isolated where the swell of water ordinarily should be.

 _His_ face.

Stunned, he gets down to his knees and rifles through some more of the paintings on the floor, finds that many of them are incomplete in the same way, some in charcoal and full of disembodied eyes, _his_ eyes; others are landscapes that break away into a series of parted lips and shining, smiling teeth - and they are all _his_.

It is as if she had been trying to paint over the memory of him, last time she was here, but her mind kept taking her back to all the different parts of him she ever admired, leaving them scrawled in the way of beautiful landscapes and pictures of fruits, plants, starships - nothing _beautiful_ anymore.

* * *

She is lost in the peace of wild things when she feels him at her shoulder, and when she turns around to look into his eyes, she knows without a doubt what he has seen.

But he says nothing about it at all.

Will's arms come to smooth over her bony shoulders, the soft fabric of the dress she is wearing, and he speaks only as a whisper, feeling terribly obscene in destroying the native silence.

"I have to get back to the Starbase, Captain Picard is waiting for me so that I can oversee some of the work in engineering,"

His voice is apologetic, but she simply smiles wanly at him, proud that he can resist the overwhelming urge she knows he feels to just stay, and share in that power the planet holds - it had been an urge her father could not fight against.

"Will you be okay on your own?"

She has no chance to respond before he hears an almighty thud at the back of the house, and a series of bounding, beating footsteps towards where they are. Pulling out his phaser, he turns to face the intruder.

Deanna is laughing, breaking the silence too, and the creature simply rushes past him without giving him a second glance, and up to where she sits still on the sofa.

The creature is almost wolf like, but it's fur is a light lilac, thick and accented by strands of silver and grey; it has a shining pink snout and flapping ears and a bushy tail which forks at the end, sweeping in two different directions.

"Merea!"

Deanna exclaims as the creature comes towards her, and there is just enough delight in her voice for Will to holster his phaser again, and watch as it places its large flat paws on either side of her body on the couch, reaching up to lick at her hands with an orange spotted tongue.

"Will, meet Merea,"

She is running her fingers through the fur around its neck when the creature turns to Will, responding to some command he didn't hear, and it regards him with curiosity.

"Merea?"

He repeats, and the creature bounces it's head happily, jumping to curl it's large body beside Deanna on the couch.

"Yes,"

She starts to explain.

"We met as children in the _Yahar_ surrounding the house, she was an injured pup separated from her father, and mine had just died. We found each other amongst the trees, she heard me and I heard her. She has been visiting me ever since."

Deanna explains, as though looking back on a terribly fond memory, and she then turns to Merea, who has begun to nuzzle into her side and whine lowly, as though she can feel that something is not quite right. Will quickly follows as the translator scrubs over and replaces her word with _forest_ \- they had met in the _forest_.

"Is she wild?"

Will is still apprehensive as he regards the scene before him, but the look on his face only causes Deanna to start laughing, and he is certainly glad that this conversation has not led where he was expecting it to.

"All creatures here are wild Will, they are also _telepathic_ , to a certain extent of course,"

The animal whines louder, her tail thumping the side of the couch where it drapes over the edge.

"She comes to me when I am home, we spent many years together as children, and now we are like old friends,"

Merea yips joyfully, happy that her sentiment has been expressed, and Will tries not to feel so excluded, repeats what he had said before.

"So, I guess you _will_ be okay, _on your own_ ,"

He jokes, but the understanding he has formed is one that is not funny at all: that it is impossible for her to be alone when even the wildlife loves her.

He leans down to kiss her cheek, and Merea dips her head in concession, as Deanna reaches instead for his lips, and they share in a quick, familiar goodbye.

She watches him leave down the garden path, through the window before her, and he is one man against a backdrop of everything she loves and holds dear, until he is gone, dragged up into the sky in a stream of particles, and she tries hard not to let that feeling that lingers always with her envelope her.

The feeling that he will just never return.


	10. Mind

"So how is Counselor Troi doing these days, Commander?"

Geordi is bouncing on the balls of his feet, watching as a crew that is not his own begins to gut his beautiful relay systems; he is trying very hard to distract himself from the desire to intervene.

"Uh, yeah, she's doing okay, glad to be home for a few days I guess, Betazed is beautiful this time of year,"

Will responds distractedly, still thinking of Deanna, still worrying about being so far from her; the Captain had told him that he might make a visit himself, as well as Beverly, if they happened to get the free time.

Data, who is standing curiously at Laforge's side, turns his amber eyes on the Commander.

"It is my understanding, Commander Riker, that Betazed is exceptionally visually pleasing at every point of it's calender cycle?"

He asks, only a semi-question, looking for another reference to add to his database, the next time somebody mentions this particular planet. Geordi just laughs at his friend.

"Correct as always Mr Data, it's a very unique place to be, those that attempt to compare it to Earth are only deluding themselves,"

Will says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against an unused wall panel.

"I heard the whole place was silent, seems a little too creepy if you ask me,"

Geordi adds, scratching at his nose beneath the visor and turning away from where a group of engineers have given in to impatience and have just begun pulling at the dead cables with their bare hands.

"This is also true, Geordi, however your determination of the phenomenon as _'creepy'_ confuses me. How can an abstract concept such as _creepiness_ apply to a situation which is defined only by its lack of abstract applications?"

Data queries once more, altering his vocal output to compensate for the sudden sound of drilling behind him.

Riker and Laforge exchange confused glances, a little bewildered even, and Will smiles, confounded, motions that he will be the one to answer.

"That might be a question better answered by Deanna herself, Data, I'm not sure either Geordi or I are the people to ask,"

He nods placidly, his eyes replicating a movement of memory, when really the android is simply sorting this piece of information away in his databanks for a later date, as he seems to have been doing a lot lately.

"I will ask the Counselor when I visit her home tomorrow, perhaps I will be able to observe this _creepiness_ myself when I am there,"

Will nods along, then does a double take, as does Geordi, who seems to be a step ahead of himself and is already opening his mouth in question, one hand raised in a kind of halt.

"Wait a minute Data, you're going to Betazed, tomorrow, to Deanna's _house_?"

He questions slowly, as if talking with a child, and Data simply inclines his head to the left side, mimicking a motion of confusion he had picked up from the engineer himself.

"Of course - when I requested permission to access the planetary data banks I was informed that the wealth of historical data had not been converted from the original written works, and that the Fifth House was the keeper of this Library,"

Data pauses when he notices the looks he is receiving from the other two officers, and he tries for a few moments to identify them before giving in, and continuing.

"As the current occupant, I requested permission from Counselor Troi to study the books in her family's possession, in order to learn more of classical Betazoid history, and she extended an invitation for me to spend the afternoon with her at her home, claiming she would ' _enjoy the company'_."

He finishes by accenting the direct quote and flitting his gaze between Riker and Geordi, confused as to why they are speechless still, his explanation making a terrible amount of sense.

"Well...it's good to hear she'll be with…a friend,"

Will starts, scratching where he is still failing to grow a beard on the point of his chin, as he glances over at Laforge, looking for a change of topic.

"I do worry about her being alone, so far away from Beverly,"

He finishes, and Data nods, satisfied, but it seems that Geordi has thought of something more to discuss, his eyebrows wiggling his suggestion.

"Oh yeah, that's right Commander, you and Troi _have_ been unusually _close_ lately, it must be strange to be apart for so long?"

Immediately, Will puts on a mock defensive, one of his hands laying flat over his chest in shock.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, lieutenant,"

"Yeah!?"

Geordi scoffs in disbelief, turns to Data in hopes of getting some kind of statistic to back up his theory, but the android remains suspiciously silent.

"Well _I_ think you two are good for eachother, and it's great to see that she's got you lookin' out for her, what with the pregnancy and all,"

He says hopelessly, decidedly not going to be getting any gossip out of either of them, and so instead he just settles on the sentiment, sure in himself, at least, that his conspiracy is entirely correct

Will smiles genuinely, and pats Laforge on the shoulder in thanks, a certain twinkle of something in his eyes, a gentle rise of temperature in the skin of his cheeks.

Geordi smiles back - _oh yeah, entirely correct._

* * *

Beverly's arrival is clumsy, obtrusive and loud, her mind appearing on the planet's surface like a beacon, a great beacon of anxiety that splits the harmony clean in half. And though the whole population is not a collective mind, not some kind of balanced utopia as some may think, her appearance is enough to disturb the continent, if only for a second.

Deanna senses her immediately, and she opens her eyes to watch as the woman turns to face the house, and squints through the low sun as she walks towards it, impressed and intimidated at the same time.

As she gets closer it is possible to see that the woman carries with her a shoulder bag, long handled and slung over one side of her body, dipping where something heavy sits in the middle; she is not wearing her uniform, but rather a linen shirt tucked into the high waistband of a pair of khaki pants.

The door chimes, and as she stands Deanna instructs Merea to remain where she is, dozing curled up on the floor where it is warmest above a heating pipe.

She pulls on the gilded door handle and opens one half of the double doors, watches as Beverly's expression changes to one of joy upon seeing her, and she motions for her to step inside, out of the drizzle.

"This house is beautiful Deanna, the two of you go together well,"

She comments, her voice genuine and soft, glancing Deanna up and down as she takes in the sight of her, small and dressed in a relaxed gown which flows down to her feet, all the grandeur of the Fifth House encompassed with simplicity in its charming daughter.

"Thank you Beverly, I was not sure I'd be seeing you today?"

The two women walk through to the front room, Deanna leading them as she speaks, and instead of climbing back onto the couch, she offers the space to Beverly and sits herself in the tall backed armchair, this time facing away from the bayed windows.

Beverly sits, drops her bag to the floor at her feet and regards the place with awe, looking up and around herself at the books all over the walls.

"Uh, yeah,"

She starts after a long pause, distracted, then shakes her head and tries to focus on Deanna's face.

"Captain Picard offered me the afternoon off, I thought I'd come and share a late lunch with you, maybe take a walk?"

Beverly plays the handle of the bag between her fingers, sitting on the very edge of the sofa and appearing to be a little nervous - even if she wasn't an empath, Deanna would know she is lying.

"He asked you to come and check on me, didn't he?"

Suspicion in her voice, her eyes narrowed, she is not even really asking a question, and she feels immediately a certain sense of shame within the doctor, but it is not enough that she is indignant, and that really is a good thing - she's had enough of raised voices in this house.

"You caught me,"

Beverly says apologetically, dropping the strap and holding her hands up, guilty. She smiles, inclines her head, relaxing a little into the cushions.

Deanna is completely at ease.

"So what's in the bag?"

Her slender fingers motion to the black mass on the floor, and again there is a spike of some feeling Deanna cannot accurately identify, it disappears so quickly, and Beverly raises one guilty eyebrow as she speaks.

"My...med kit…"

"I see,"

Deanna nods pensively, untucks her legs and moves to sit also on the edge of her seat; she glances one hand past the swell of her stomach, still small and hidden behind the flowing fabric of her dress. Crusher takes the signal, bends down to unzip the bag and pull out her tricorder, as well as a case of hypo sprays, all pre-filled in shades of amber and gold.

She is scanned briefly, as Beverly moves to kneel before her, and then administer further supplements than the one she received this morning, before having it explained to her exactly why that is necessary.

Deanna is only half listening.

From there they move to the kitchen, and she feels Crushers expression fall at the thought of having to _cook_ , and she laughs before directing her to the replicator, where she creates something native to Betazed, hoping it will make Deanna more likely to eat it.

They trade conversation over plates of food, sitting on the stools at the kitchen island, Beverly occasionally prompting Deanna to continue to eat, even when she insists she would rather not.

If the concern were not so palpable, it might be that she would not comply - but she does.

"So what where you hoping to see?"

Deanna queries over a forkful of red leaves and dressing, hoping to distract her attention. It is a question Beverly is unprepared for.

"I hadn't really thought about it, I guess - whatever you think I should?"

There is a moment of thought, until the answer comes to Deanna like a glorious light bulb, something which she had wanted to do alone anyway, and now thinks she can share her delight of.

"I think I may have the perfect idea,"

* * *

The water is shining the reflection of a disappearing sun, and all the trees surrounding them are lit up by small, glowing insects that flitter through the canopy, the whole scene like something from a Shakespearean dream.

The sky is beginning to burn up in shades of pink all around the edges, and in the middle where she can barely see it, the stars are starting to appear against a stark purple backdrop - she could explain it using science, but maybe magic will suffice.

Deanna is just a head and shoulders in amongst a deep stream of dark crystal water, not transparent but stark and clean. She calls out to her.

"Beverly, the water is _warm_ , just come in,"

Despite having had it explained to her that the river runs down from hot springs, and all the rocks in the streams above have baked long enough in the low sun that the water is essentially perfect, there is that ever present human fear of the cold that continues to pull Beverly back.

That and the fact that Deanna is _naked_.

"Fine! I'm coming, I'm coming,"

Beverly responds, exasperated, her own body covered up in a black swimsuit she had replicated, respecting the traditions of the Betazoid people, but not sharing in the comfort of it. She had even raised a few medical objections on Deanna's behalf, but she couldn't refute the purity of the water when tested by her equipment, and so she fast found herself watching as the younger woman simply stepped out of her dress, and left it at the shoreline. That, and Deanna did make an excellent argument on the basis of her pregnancy, though she did not linger in it, only suggested that the growing pressure on her back would be alleviated by the water - and at that, Beverly had given in.

The water _is_ warm, and thick feeling, but not heavy, and it takes her a few moments to wade out to where Deanna is, dipping her head down beneath the surface and then appearing again just a moment before she is pulled out.

"I wish you would quit doing that!"

Beverly complains, taking a hold of one of the Counselors shoulders as she reaches her, and she does a double take, trying not to linger too long over the feel of the bones jutting there.

Deanna's face is shining, clean of makeup and dripping water from her chin, her nose, the ends of her eyelashes; she reflects so much of the light around her, breathing open mouthed and smiling softly - she is _home_.

"I have been coming down here since I was very young, whenever my Father was on leave, he made sure I was a very strong swimmer,"

Deanna dips back beneath again, languidly, coming back up with hair plastered against her face before pushing it back and putting her own hand on Beverly's shoulder.

"You need to stop worrying for a little while,"

And in one moment, Beverly is underwater too, the girls hands with surprising strength pulling her down, and it is almost like being in outer space, floating untethered when she is let go.

All the matter around her is liquid and flowing, but doing so gently, and calmly enough that she could be flying in _space_ , all the water dark and flecked with white creatures like those in the canopy, tiny and glowing like _stars_.

They resurface in a rush of air, and Beverly blinks away the water from eyes, though it does not sting, turns with amazement to where Deanna rises with her. She is smiling goofily, 20 years younger than she really is, not even really a person anymore, not a mother or a Doctor, she is just a child delighted by this hidden world she has discovered.

Taking a deep breath, she turns her gaze upon Deanna, and demands.

" _Again_ ,"

* * *

She is in space - only not.

And she's really inside her own mind, except her eyes are open.

Beneath the water, she is wherever she needs to be.

So for the moment, she is in space, floating without herself.

She has no body, no hands that she can see out in front of her, there is not hair in her eyes nor breath in her lungs - she is free. The Enterprise hangs like a pendulum before her, and she is moving without thought towards it, hoping for something that she may not find.

Somebody else's intentions are raging in all the blood she doesn't have.

Suddenly, she is inside the ship, moving so quickly through the sleeping rooms that she cannot concentrate on the faces she sees, frantic, until she sees her own. There is a decision to who she has possessed, and then, the thought is gone.

Her own body sucks in a breath, and lapses once again beneath the water.

There are federation credits scattered across a blue opulent rug, thick and made simply from a plastic that means nothing much at all. A bowl of gold-pressed latinum chips is upturned beneath the table. Her own voice, garbled by water and memory, shrieking a calmness she forgets.

" _At least I was worth -_ "

The sky is much darker than before - she takes another breath.

Grass fills her nostrils, the smell so pungent, so littered by flecks of ocean spray, that she can be nowhere but the shoreline of Earth, of San Francisco. Her body is much stronger than she remembers, and she has not yet known what a man can choose to do to hurt her. Her uniform is too tight, and a boy whistles behind her, saying something that is garbled, but speaks of puppy love, and a relationship that will end the moment she boards a ship. She turns from the ocean and pecks him on the cheek, his name and face unimportant, but for the taste of a love that is skinny.

Beverly ceases to exist at her side; she breathes less deeply than before.

Will's quarters on the Enterprise, only a week before she became pregnant, and the smell of rose perfume and sex that lingers in all the air. He looks at her from the bedroom, but he has no eyes, and there are spiders crawling across his whole body - naked. She has no idea what she's there for, and from behind him, a woman croons. Fingers close around his shoulder, but the woman has no face.

Hands are covering her own shoulders, but she is beneath the water again before even a breath can enter her.

" _We never made it official_ ,"

A man's voice fills her ears, and she does not need to see him to know it is Will. She's in space, asleep, feeling something she wants to have forgotten. He is speaking, but not to her, and she can feel him because she is terrified of the thought of being alone. Maybe if he were not alone himself, but there is a woman with him. Ecstasy that is not her own takes possession of her.

A final breath, shallow and painful, before she is floating again in outer space.

And this time, she is nowhere but where they want her to be, in seconds that draw themselves out into years. A baby kicks, and then grows fast into a young child, an adult, a gravestone with Will at its side. The man laughs, his voice garbled mania.

" _At least now I am free of you_ ,"

A figure is hanging off his arm, tall and lithe and faceless - she reeks of rose perfume.

A whole host of fabricated images become of her, the moments of domesticity they shared condensed into a timeline, each second image one of him and this woman, her shape always changing.

The phantom of him says he loves her, but the water shows her what he wants more truly than a life doomed with her. She hears her voice, imploring him - _we are the stuff of legends_ \- but she still is not enough for him.

She feels that she is sinking into the creatures, and the danger of them overcomes her; her mind sucked into a maelstrom of the things she cannot admit, secret even to herself.

Arms that are less real than anything she now knows, reach to pull her from the depths.

* * *

If Beverly wasn't so enchanted by the whole experience, then maybe she would have noticed sooner how Deanna has begun to fade. She is slowly beginning to take longer to resurface, and at first it was as though she just wanted to spend longer amongst the wonder found beneath, but soon it is evident that something is wrong.

And it is not violent, or scary, or really anything dramatic at all when Beverly finally sees, only as quiet as the whispering continents, the ocean as it drifts into land.

"Deanna?"

The girls arms are no longer pushing in circles around her, holding herself up, and so Beverly loops her own beneath her shoulder blades and guides her upwards gently, observing the fluttering of Deanna's dripping eyelashes.

"I think it's time to go back inside now,"

Beverly affirms, turning upwards to see how the sky is no longer on fire, and all the stars that were once beneath the water are now scattered above them, like a handful of glitter thrown over a deep indigo canvas - like _magic_.

She pulls Deanna with her towards the edge of the pool of water, wading backwards until there are smooth pebbles once again beneath their feet, and she is capable of standing on her own. Beverly leaves her in the shallows, reaches for a towel on the banks of the blue grass then walks back over to where she is, holding the towel up so that she can step straight into, wrapping it around her smaller body with care.

They walk arm in arm back up along the banks, and Beverly is immensely glad they are not far from the house, not sure exactly how long Deanna's legs will be able to hold her up.

But of course, this is not _normal_.

And the world around them has just begun to pick up with life, as the evening takes a hold, and all the wildlife desires to be heard at last, desires to hear each other and all the separate sounds of the night.

Inside the house it is quiet, as they reach it from the end of a winding dirt path, the way lit up by rocks which have become luminescent in the radiation of the sun - a whole other planet entirely.

Deanna's breathing is shallow and fast, but she does not shiver the slight chill in the air, instead she allows herself to be steered into the back room, drops down heavily on one of the more worn sofas, plush and the colour of soft slate.

The Doctor scarcely knows what to do, and she herself is shivering slightly, a fact not unnoticed by Deanna, who moves, bends around to push a button on the underside of the coffee table, and the fireplace in front of them ignites in one sudden roar of flames; green and yellow, burning away at the log of a native tree.

The woman moves, disappears into the kitchen where she had left her bag slung over one of the stools, and then appears once more, pulling out a fresh change of clothes for herself. The walk had almost completely dried her, and the swimsuit fabric is engineered to dry quickly anyway, so she just steps into a looser pair of pants, and then pulls a plain t-shirt over her head, trying not to fuss too much over herself.

"I'll get you some water,"

Beverly offers, and only then does she notice how they two had been silent, until her voice breaks it clean in half, and she moves into the kitchen once more, searching through the cupboards with as little tact as she has, for a glass, a mug, _anything_ resembling something she might recognise.

There are short, tumbler-like rounds of blown glass, embossed with a certain kind of seel, and stained in 100 different shades of red, and Beverly stops looking when she finds them, fills one with fresh water from the running tap beside the oven, and returns to Deanna's side.

Another thought occurs to her - _the replicator_ \- but it is too late now.

She leaves the glass on the low table, fumbles to retrieve the tricorder from her bag, but for the first moment, Deanna's voice rises to stop her.

"Please - don't...I'm fine, really,"

Beverly does not want to listen, she is finally slipping into the assured role of a doctor, and Deanna is trying so desperately to pull her back.

"I am just tired,"

She motions Beverly to sit beside her on the sofa, the rest of her body still and frozen, the towel tucked up beneath her arms and making her look so much larger than she is, asides from the two exposed bony shoulders that rise harshly with her shallow breathing.

"This has happened before then?"

Beverly states, and Deanna is not an easy woman to read, but she thinks maybe now she is coming close to seeing how she hides, moving a hand to rest atop the girls thigh and meeting her eyes in the fireglow.

She nods, and Beverly is sure now of all the things that are being kept from her, kept out of her power, of her _control_ , and maybe that's a good thing, maybe there's nothing she could do to change any of it, maybe she is being saved from herself.

But doesn't she have the right to make that decision too?

"You should have told me,"

Deanna turns completely towards her, eyes brimming up with sleepy tears, and the sting of holding them open for too long above the water - she dips her head to one side.

"What could you have done?"

She starts, sighing the voice she wishes to not have, wanting the delight of her home in it's silence all to herself - and that ought not be too much to ask.

"You could have turned all my blood _artificial_ , and it would not have altered a single thing,"

Deanna finishes sadly, though there is very little inflection to her voice: she is, at once, filled up with emotions, and full of nothing at all.

There is a frank honesty Beverly had not prepared for.

"You could have at least given me the benefit of _trying_ ,"

She sighs, knowing anyway that Deanna is right, and there really is no point arguing much further.

The situation has brought them both to this point, powerless to stop something they can't understand - powerless to even _slow it down_.

Crusher shakes her head, shakes away all the thoughts she can't control, shakes the wet hair from around her eyes so that she can really start to _see_ , and not be lost still in amongst the world of stars at the bottom of the garden.

"Let me get you a change of clothes,"

She offers, and as quickly as she had sat herself down she is standing again, taking her hand away from Deanna and endeavouring to navigate back through the house towards the front door, the place where she had passed two other bags on the way in. The first is Will's, and upset stops her from raising her eyebrows at the fact he has brought so much along, so she simply moves over to Deanna's, filled instead with none of the luxury she has come to expect.

There are sweatshirts that aren't hers, and track pants that she has never run in, perhaps all the things she cannot find in her own wardrobe in the House she grew up in, all the things that may as well just make this another of Will's bags.

Beverly returns with just a set of starfleet academy sweats, understanding too well that she needn't bother even bringing any underwear, and if the sun weren't setting so early in the evening, then perhaps the clothes themselves wouldn't be necessary either.

 _Betazoids_.

"I can help you get dressed if you want?"

She offers, returning to the back room, but before she can say much more, or move much further, she is stopped in her tracks by Deanna, standing on two unsteady legs in front of the fireplace, the towel at her feet in a pool of swimming fabric.

"Oh,"

The sound escapes Beverly's mouth before she can even really stop it, because even though she is a doctor, there are some sights that would stun saints into silence, there is always something more than one has seen before.

Deanna's body is not skeletal, but it is close, and as she faces into the flames it is possible to see all the bumps along her spine, the ribs that flank it on either side, and the blades of her shoulders where they slice out from her skin.

"Thank you Beverly,"

She whispers, turning around to warm her back, revealing herself completely, in a way that is not clinical, nor sexual, and Beverly might finally be beginning to understanding the comfort of Betazoids.

She unfreezes her body and steps closer to the girl, tries not to think medically about the condition of her body, or the way the skin at her stomach is stretched tightly already, and a calm rash is beginning to spread from one side to the other, still much smaller than it will get.

Deanna holds her arms up over her head, placidly, when she is motioned to do so, and like a mother Beverly rolls the jumper up and pulls it gently over her head, then down and round her body, doing her best not to linger at the hot skin of her belly.

Then, as she sways, Deanna rests her hands on the Doctors shoulders, where she kneels slightly to offer the rolled legs of the pants to her. She steps in one leg at a time, awkwardly, pushing down on Beverly's shoulders, trying desperately to maintain some kind of balance, and failing.

As she pulls the waistband up over the girls hips, Deanna begins to sway so dramatically that she tips forwards, and has to be caught by Beverly who rises fluidly to grab her beneath the arms.

"Come on, Dee, come and sit,"

Beverly ushers her to the sofa once again, lowers her down with care, ignores the itching in her hands for the tricorder, and reluctantly sits down beside her, taking the cushion from her own back and offering it to her.

"I'm sorry,"

Deanna offers meekly, and Beverly takes her hand in one of her own larger ones, rubs the back of it softly, a motion her grandmother had done for her, to make her feel safe.

"Don't be, we've had fun haven't we?"

Deanna just snorts a half laugh, some sort of derision hidden within it, but perhaps too far removed to mean anything at all, and she is just _tired._

"You can sleep if you want to, I'll stay here until Will is off duty,"

Beverly's offer is met by two watery black orbs, large and dilated, hiding behind two drifting eyelids. Their owner just smiles softly, _drained_ , and takes a hold of the pillow she was offered then tucks it in behind her head, sliding down into the sofa cushions with her legs tucked up beneath her.

Deanna needs no further invitation, no further prompting, and this in and of itself is indicative of a problem - that she would not resist the notion of her incapacity, her _incapability_ \- is enough to show anyone that she is not okay.


	11. Oceans

Author's Note:

So 10 chapters in, I feel like now is where I justify myself.

Anybody who's taken the time to message me or review this story, you guys are doing _the_ _most_ for my ego right now - but, of course, I really rely on anymore you have to say about this story, good or bad, so please do leave me a review if you haven't already and tell me what you think.

I do a lot of writing in between classes, but this is the first time I've had something I really thought I could publish, given that I have a lot of this actually written in pre-edit already, but nothing is fixed yet, so anywhere you'd like to see this story go is completely flexible at this point if you want to leave me your suggestions.

Finally, I hope it doesn't come through too badly, but I'm not a woman and I've never been remotely near a pregnant one, so my internet history is a really questionable place right now. Any serious inaccuracies I guess we can chalk down to that, but again, if anybody has any suggestions for different angles I can take, especially in the monologue of the female characters, that would be honestly the most helpful for me.

A quick disclaimer: it goes without saying, they aren't mine, I'd probably have done a lot different if they were, but unfortunately Paramount has the pleasure, so let's all move on with our lives.

PS: I'm sorry for what's about to happen, it's just where the characters took me, blame them.

* * *

It is not _done_ , to beam into the Fifth House - it is not _polite_.

Will, therefore, finds himself ringing the door chime, feeling like an imposter from the second he materialised on the planet surface.

Beverly answers, and he knows something is wrong.

She holds a finger up immediately to press against her lips, to silence his opening mouth, then she steps aside and points directly down the corridor, shutting the door behind him as he moves in without her. He ends up in the kitchen when she catches up to him, and again she puts a finger to her lips, and points to the wooden door that is half shut over the back-room, motioning for him to go in ahead of her, but following closely behind him.

The fire is burning lowly, crackling in the silence, the log creaking and moaning the effort of continuing to blaze in the way it does. In it's glow rests Deanna, her body not the most immediate thing to notice of the room, but she is still there, a feature upon the sofa, laying end to end with a pillow tucked between her knees, and one beneath her head.

She is breathing so lightly that she might not be breathing at all, and her lungs are lost under the fabric of her sweatshirt, her cheeks ever so slightly flushed with heat, pink and bringing some kind of life to her.

He wants to move closer to her, to touch her and feel that she is living, but Beverly has a hand on his arm, pulling him back out into the kitchen, a whisper at the root of her tongue.

"Don't wake her yet,"

Will can barely hear her, and the carved panels of the kitchen walls simply absorb the sound, enforcing the silence that has since permeated throughout the whole house.

"Is she is okay?"

He asks, entirely unsure as to why because he's fairly certain by now that she _isn't_ , that she _won't be_ for a long while; he shakes his head as though he regrets even saying anything at all.

"She just needs to sleep - I can't do anything more for her,"

Beverly utters, her eyes meeting his own, and he can see regret within her too, that she can't do more, that she maybe cannot do anything at all.

She slips past him and out into the back-room, moving quickly but so silently she is as much a whisper as her voice, and she returns with a bag slung over her shoulder, and a combadge between her fingers.

Before she turns away from him to leave, her hand moves forward to show him the item, shaking it just a little to demonstrate something to him, and he nods his affirmation, glancing his fingers past the badge over his own uniformed chest.

She reaches to squeeze his arm, to offer him some reassurance before she leaves.

And then she does, shutting the door behind herself and walking back down a path that is lit by solar panels hidden beneath the grass, and the creatures of bioluminescence that continue to play, and burn between the trees.

Then back within the house, Will starts to look around himself, lost.

He doesn't want to wake her up, he wants more than anything to let her sleep; but there are so many things he wants and cannot have, so he thinks he maybe has to let this one go.

And he does, or he at least tries his hardest to, kneeling in front of her face beside the sofa; he puts a large hand against her stomach, taking liberties he might not be afforded when she is awake.

At his touch, something _moves_ beneath the surface, and a lungful of air gets trapped in his throat. Another hand joins by the side of his first, splayed and held out rigidly from his body, a distance that he maintains in his fear, his _awe_.

There is that same movement again, responding to his touch he thinks, but isn't sure until he his nudged in the palm of his left hand, so lightly that it could be nothing at all - but he knows it is not.

And she hadn't told him this was happening.

"I'm sorry,"

He jolts the sudden sound, moves to look up and along her body until he sees that her eyes have opened, and they are regarding him with a kind of sorrow he hasn't seen from her before, nothing but resignation to an end they neither can see.

Will isn't sure what's woken her: the feeling of his hands over her, the child within her, or the sadness of his mind so loud in her own, but she is awake nonetheless, and apologising for something he hasn't even said aloud yet.

She blinks.

"How long?"

He asks, not wanting to be hurt that she kept it from him, reminding himself of the colour of his own eyes, displaced, in amongst the scenery of Betazed.

"A few days,"

Deanna murmurs, reaching over to rest a hand on his head, her fingers like breaths of wind through his hair, gently soothing him in a way that maybe he ought to be doing for her.

"Why?"

Their conversation is a series of words that make little sense when spoken aloud, but there has always been something between them, deliberate and predictable, an understanding, that often what is left unsaid is the most important.

"I did not want to,"

Deanna responds, and he stops breathing for a second, confounded by the sound of her voice, confounded by the sound of her _honesty_.

"Why?"

Will asks again, trying to find her eyes behind where they continue to hide, her lashes fluttering as they struggle to stay open for too long.

"I can never be sure,"

She begins, speaking as though she is seeing something more each time she closes her eyes, and she's trying so hard to hold onto the image of it, to help him _understand_.

"If you are the ocean or the sky,"

Deanna's fingers slow in his hair, and even though her eyes are closed he can tell that she sees him more deeply than before.

And she is a terrifying woman, because she draws out of him the things he cannot even tell himself.

"I don't understand?"

Will despairs.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, takes her hand back from him and holds it against her heart, tries to persuade her body to slow down for just a moment.

"I have spent these past days wondering if you are what gives me air, or if you are what drowns me."

"Deanna,"

He whispers to her, terribly sad, some feeling evoked deep within him that he has no name for, has only ever experienced in her presence.

Her eyes snap open again, fire and fury and nothing of either at all.

"No - I know that my love is not for everyone, but I will not lie to myself that it is for _you_ ,"

She is speaking now in the way that women who drown oceans do, the way that young boys dream of but never can handle the reality - he takes his hands away from her like he has been burned.

Will thuds back on his heels, hits the floor heavily with very little air left in him; he sits now like that same young boy, his legs bent out in front of him, hands holding on to his knees.

"How could you say that to me Deanna, after all of this?"

He asks, all the emotion he had walked into this conversation with now blown up against the walls, like he's been shot in the head with a bullet - her thoughts, in the shape of a weapon.

Deanna seems too to be equally as hurt by it though, every time she hurts him she is only hurting herself, everything dripping in the sweet ache of a gunshot.

She speaks in silence, an 8 word plea for him to _stay gone_ :

"I will not survive you a second time,"

The ceiling seems to split in two, the floor into a chasm that could eat him up, and if at any point he could ever have claimed to know how he hurt her, then he has always been wrong until now, feeling that just being near to him is causing her so much agony that she is near to death.

"Deanna,"

Will has no words, he can only say her name, over and over in the vain hope it will do something more than it has been doing so far, will do something to pull her closer to him by the rope he has wrapped around her neck.

"No,"

She pleads.

"I can't,"

A beat.

"I will not let this happen to me again, you can either be close, or very far away, but having you in between is exhausting,"

She takes a deep, throaty breath.

"You are _exhausting me_ ,"

Tears have come to her eyes, but they do not appear completely sad, they are somehow red in the glow from the fire, refracting all the light around her so that she may as well just be crying flames, some form of anger that is not explosive has come upon her face.

"Then let me be close, I'm here for you, we are _Imzadi_ ,"

Will finds himself begging now, as the fire behind him cracks open into a huff of embers, loud and imposing and a perfect reflection of how she herself cracks, drags her body further upwards on the couch, her hair flipping back over behind her head.

"But you cannot tell me you love me? You keep saying the same words without meaning them at all, but you can never say _love_?"

She hisses, her tongue forked, a snake - a woman scorned.

Will stands up as she moves, and the stillness in the room is shattered so cleanly by all the motions, casting shadows on them both.

But still he says nothing at all.

"I think you should leave,"

Deanna begins to say slowly, pushing her legs out and swinging around to sit fully upright, to not have to look so far up to him, to not be so small beneath his thumb for much longer.

"I can't, you need me here to look after you, I have _orders_ ,"

He pleads with her, his hands gesturing desperately out in front of him as she goes so far as to stand, her body not shaking, but not quite steady either. It is clear that she cannot hear him, whether she is refusing to or she just can't let herself for fear of giving in, all the emotion seems to suddenly have drained from her, shed like a second skin left behind in the depths of the sofa cushions she had slept on.

" _Orders_ can be disregarded, _Commander_ , and this is my _home_. When I tell you to leave, I am not _asking_."

Deanna's words have become pointed, sharpened, almost as if from nowhere, but she keeps her arms down by her sides, and if she were not speaking with such inflection of terror, then anybody could be fooled into thinking she is just a shell, a woman who is completely empty.

"Where is this coming from, I thought we'd talked through this, I thought we were together again?"

He begs now, appealing to the look in her eyes, but as he looks to her there he must struggle to hold the air up in his chest, and not sink into one of the cracks in the floor. Because the literary scholars of Earth have been telling them all for centuries that it's in the eyes, that eyes _talk_ , but if he could go back then he'd introduce them to _her_ \- because her eyes say nothing at all.

"You need to leave Will, whatever you thought then you thought wrong - you thought only of yourself,"

She orders, _orders_ him as though she is his captain - his _god_.

But he isn't moving fast enough for her, he isn't moving at all, and all of a sudden she is lit up by the fire spitting harshly again, and there is some sound in his mind, splitting it in two.

 _LEAVE_

He grabs a hold of his head with both hands, whinces the pain her voice has caused him, but still he does not move.

 _GET OUT_

She has closed her eyes, and he has squeezed his together so that he can concentrate on forcing out the feeling of her screaming over and over in his mind - but he is weak, and he can't even quiet her a little.

Then, as he still hasn't moved even one foot towards the door, he feels the tingle of a transporter beam grip onto him, a different feeling than usual, and when he opens his eyes he sees how the world is a different shade than he would expect, green and red and not swimming in the same way as a starfleet transporter does. He has no idea where he is going, or what had been done to trigger the foreign beam, but he is _leaving_ , and her voice is disappearing from him, being dragged away by the increasing distance of space.

The colours shrink away and he blinks once.


	12. Shield

Authors Note:

Here's a short one for now, basically providing no closure whatsoever, and probably just more questions. I really don't think TNG did enough to exploit the world they created when they thought up technologically advanced telepaths, so this just a little glimpse at my interpretation of a cool place they could have taken that.

As usual, if you've got any issues, or really anything to say at all, your comments are much appreciated - a massive thanks to those who've taken the time to do so already, I'm thinking _imzadi_ happy ending... or maybe not?

* * *

There are security officers mobilising to point phasers at him, and then as the dust settles, he can see that the Captain is turning to face him with incredulity.

"Commander Riker?"

The officers stand down, the Enterprise bridge quiets as they move back to their stations, and Worf looks away and down to his security panel again.

Will is crying, he hadn't even realised his eyes were stinging - he wants to go _back_.

"My ready room, _now_!"

Picard says sternly, agitated clearly by something he cannot himself perceive. But he follows anyway, because something terrible happened the last time he didn't do what he was told.

The Captain does not offer him a seat, but his head is splitting open at the sides, the pain incredibly present still.

"What the HELL did you do?"

Immediately, once he has moved to stand behind his desk, Picard is pointing these questions at him, a kind of anger within the man that Will cannot discern the source of.

"I don't understand?"

He responds, helpless, his hands falling away from his temples.

"You were just beamed directly onto the bridge of my ship, bypassing the shields, the security measures and the entire structure of the starbase in front of us, and the only warning was a generated message alerting of an intruder in the fifth house - I want an explanation!"

"I think I want one too Sir,"

Picard picks up a data pad, tries so hard not to throw one of his fists against the surface of his desk in his outrage.

"Your transport was facilitated by a Betazoid bio-technology that the Federation has no understanding of, it is a form of telepathically triggered transport beam, utilising a kind of _neural net_ , like a _shield_."

He reads, then pauses, gives in and throws the pad instead against the desk, rounds it to loom closer to Riker, who has moved to stand straighter, his hands clasped behind his back.

"This shield, this _neural net,_ is the same reason you cannot beam directly into the Fifth House, it's sophisticated, personable technology designed to be triggered by the distress of the occupants, it's supposed to be almost impossible to trigger and only works on a short range, so what I want to know, _Commander,_ is just what the _hell_ you did to get yourself _shot_ through space by _my ship's Counselor!_ "

Will tries not to shrink away in fear at the Captain's thinly veiled rage, and he is so confused at all these shifts in emotion around him; a half hour ago he had thought he was a man in love, a quarter and he had thought he was an ocean, 5 minutes and he had thought he would be welcomed with sympathy. He thinks over these events for longer than he can manage, wonders how it was he had never heard of this telepathic technology until now. It makes sense, he supposes, but for Deanna to use it against him with such strength - maybe it is time he stops underestimating what he has done to her.

"I think-"

He cannot organise his words into a sentence, and Picard's eyes turn upon him with expectancy.

"She called me the ocean…"

He looks down at his feet.

"I don't… understand though,"

Will lifts his chin up in one moment of defiance, the denial of his own confusion, the denial of his own blame for whatever pain he has caused her.

"Commander Riker?"

"All due respect Sir, this is a personal matter between Deanna and I, and so it really isn't -"

He is cut off with shocking immediacy by the Captain, whose face has grown in shades of red, the usually calm man becoming closer to the end of a burning tether.

"Commander Riker, when I have concerns regarding the well-being of my senior staff, it is my every _right_ to discuss them with you, especially when I believe it feasible that your actions have brought harm upon one I care for deeply!"

He barks, his voice bordering just beneath an enraged yell, and he comes so close to Will, that it is possible to smell the fear he has inspired in him.

"I don't know what happened between you two before you came aboard my ship, but _on my ship_ it is my responsibility to maintain the equilibrium, which is why I am warning you now, number 1, if you have done _anything_ to _harm_ Counselor Troi, given her current state of fragility, then I will draw you up on reprimand, and you can be damn sure you won't be seeing your own command for a _very long time_!"

Picards threat is punctuated by a finger he has held up and shaking towards Will, and there is something more to the Captain than simple concern for an officer - he cares for Deanna in a way that is difficult for him to vocalise.

Will swallows down his pride, steps backwards a few feet hastily, finds his back almost at the doors, just before the sensor is triggered for his exit.

"Of course, I'm sorry Sir, if I may be allowed to beam back down to the planet to smooth things over then -"

"No,"

He is decisive, his voice now calmer than before, resolved to something more than his anger.

"The Counselor demonstrated a lot of effort in having you sent away, I think it's time you start respecting her decisions, _I_ will visit her in the morning along with Mr Data,"

Will opens his mouth to object, but Picard is not even looking at him anymore, can't for the sense of distaste that rises in his throat at the sight of him, without even really knowing what he has done. The act, the simple act of Deanna having forced him away - such a gentle woman - is enough to tell him that something dreadful has happened between them.

"You are to remain aboard the Enterprise Commander, you are dismissed,"

He orders, and Will is not quick to leave, but the moment that his body is capable of movement, he is gone, the doors so close behind him that they practically leap to open and spit him back out onto the bridge.

The Captain watches him go, concern creasing his brow over the thought of Deanna, her mind in enough pain that she was able to complete a task they maybe had thought impossible for any telepath, and how she must be burning up on the inside. He has no earthly idea what Will has done to her, but he has never been able to deny the way her eyes change when he is near, as though she is in love, that because of him, she is about 100 years older than she looks.


	13. Legends

Author's Note:

This chapter maybe isn't the most Will friendly ever, but I honestly have some serious beef with that guy at this point. Yeah, the characterisation was great, Frakes did a great job of being the suave Casanova we all admired, but really, I binged this show at 14, and all I could think was that he's kind of a jerk. Having read through the Imzadi backstories, I think maybe he gets too much credit, but thinking about it, he's always behaving in a way that makes me think he loves her more for the comfort of knowing she's always there, but not for the practicality of it: having his cake and eating it kind of thing. I don't know, I think more the coward him for not stepping up earlier, maybe that's a controversial thought (?), feel free to let me know if I've just essentially called your grandmother a swine.

* * *

The morning arrives in softer colours than the night had been painted in, the low and heavy sun, rising in the way that she admires so much, so welcome after months on a starship in the vacuum of space. All the dew on the grass sparkles like a half a million diamonds, each individually placed by the hands of the gods, all to reflect the rising light in a way that causes all the landscape to be lit up too.

She sees this changing world through her window, standing at the very centre of its bay with a mug of freshly brewed tea in her hands, the steam and the white veil of the glass obscuring her view just enough that the sight is not harsh to her sleepy eyes.

She is not sure of the time.

The whole house is still hunkered beneath a dome of her thoughts, and she can feel how it is impossible to permeate still, though she hasn't the strength to hold it up for much longer with such power, hasn't the strength to let it down.

In her mind, a memory of the night before.

She had been so unsure of where her change of heart came from at first. But waking to find him in her own home, his hands on her body in such a way that they could have been together for years, reminded her so starkly of how he had felt before.

And she was right, he had been more dedicated than the first time, but she had been right also: that the very fact that they were possessed of a _first time_ is enough to tell her that they will not survive a second.

Her work is made up of putting other hearts before her own, always with the consideration she admires of herself, and she will not watch herself be destroyed by him only to please his own heart, only to satisfy her fears of being alone.

This burden she has had placed upon her - to carry a child - she would so love to not have to be alone with it, but a child is no reason for two people to come together in the face of a thousand reasons to not, even when there is _love_ involved, _especially_ when there is love involved.

His love comes not without its limits, and he speaks so often yet says very little at all, the reason why all her poems remain unfinished, and even when she asks herself about what love means to her, she can think only of the heartbreak he causes her.

She is not fragile, but she loves recklessly in a way that keeps getting her hurt.

She is hurting.

She cannot afford to hurt when she needs to be strong for herself, for whatever it is that's happening to her: she will have to do it _without_ him.

Visions of the water come to her, in place of the window, in place of her own eyes, and she is seeing perhaps what Beverly could not - the power of the creatures beneath the surface. They had shown her beautiful things, images of rolling hillsides, baby birds and crying children; the peace of wildlings, and storms that have the silent power to change an entire landscape in one moment of anger.

Beverly had not seen it - she knows - but she had, and somehow in amongst it all, she had decided. No Will, no more of a breaking heart, because she will need to heal herself far too many times before this is over, without considering how he will change her.

He had changed her before - it was not enough.

At the end of the winding path, two figures appear, blackened silhouettes against a burnt umber sun.

She knows who they are before they come close, because they feel both simultaneously of every wonder of a waking world, and of nothing of wonder at all.

Tightening the knot at her waist, drawing the robe in closer to her belly, she finally moves her body in gentle, fluid ways, and she is water once again; not beneath it, or drowning in it, or mourning the loss of its love - she simply is.

The door chime rings, and her mind immediately shrinks away from the touch of a loving machine, the bubble she had built around herself recedes back within her body, with time enough to allow them in.

"Hello Data, Captain Picard,"

Deanna greets them, one arm extended again against the back of the open door, the other open palmed and beckoning them inside.

"Counselor Troi, are you well, you appear to be fatigued?"

The android questions, his eyes scanning the building around him as he enters ahead of the Captain, asking a question he has no idea comes off as terribly caring for a man who claims to understand nothing of humanity; she is touched.

Deanna smiles, lifts her face into a more animated shape; she had slept through the entire night, and much of the early morning.

"I'm fine, thank you Data, the library is just through here,"

She motions him to the closed door at the bottom of the stairs, left of where the front door opens from, and encompassing almost the entirety of that half of the house, save for where the back room cuts in beside the kitchen.

He simply nods his own thanks, and bumbles off inside, affording the Captain the opportunity to speak with her at last.

"Captain,"

She begins before he can say anything at all, turning back into the living room, adjacent to where Data had gone to, expecting that he will simply follow.

"I imagine you are not here to read my books?"

"No Counselor,"

He is following her, responding with an uncharacteristically soft voice, but frowning as he comes upon the mass of shelves covering the walls - he chooses to say nothing on it yet.

Taking the cue from her, he perches himself on the edge of the sofa, across from where she has seated herself comfortably in the armchair, tea now back in her hands.

He tries not to tug at his uniform as he speaks.

"I came to make sure you're okay?"

He is clearly uncomfortable.

"Is your presence not required on the bridge, Sir?"

She inquires, steering him away from his train of thought, not really asking much of anything.

"Not at the minute no, I've left Will in charge,"

Picard responds candidly, but he watches as his name puts a bolt of lightning through her spine, a miniscule reaction, but a reaction nonetheless.

"Though I begin to wonder if it may be foolish to trust that man with my Vessel, given how he could not be trusted with _you_ ,"

Deanna's eyes snap away from the spot on the wall behind him, and directly into his own - wary, _warning_.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about Captain,"

The room quiets for a second, a deep and profound hush that does not permeate, does not do anything other than afford him the opportunity of response, sharp and well thought out.

" _Deanna_ , even if you hadn't personally beamed the man into the middle of my _bridge_ , I'm sure he would have found some other way to demonstrate to me that he _hurt you_."

He chides softly, his hands coming together between where his elbows are resting on his knees, those eyes of his still not freed from her stare.

"Captain…"

"Deanna, please,"

Picard interrupts, the formality lost on him.

"I don't think I care to know what he did anymore, I just want to know if you're okay, if there's anything I can do to make it better?"

She has to remind herself not to cry, that it will make concentrating on speaking aloud too hard for her, and she takes a deep breath before even opening her mouth.

"Before the Enterprise,"

The girl begins.

"We had _love_ ,"

And this is a very peculiar way to phrase it, Picard thinks.

"We had love that is spoken of only in legends, we were _imzadi_ , something which was not meant to be broken,"

She takes in another, shakier breath, lets out a sigh.

"But he left me for a dream he had of the stars, the day we were to be wed, because he felt that there was _more_ than a legend to his life, that he deserved more than _legends_ to build forever on,"

Picard has to focus hard on the word _wed_ , focus hard on all its connotations, on the look that springs into her eyes at its sound, then disappears just as quickly.

"When we met again, I told him _no_ , that we could not continue where we had left - not while serving aboard the same ship,"

A beat.

"I did not tell him that it would simply be too painful, that something which is supposed to be unbreakable, cannot be taken up anytime one feels the desire for something more,"

She smiles, a terribly morose expression.

"I could not tell him that a _legend_ means more than a casual night together, that he cannot use me in the way he might use others - I tried to tell him but I could not."

The Captain blinks slowly, if only to break the hold she has on him for a moment, if only to try to take that moment and use it to really think about what she's telling him, and if she means any of it in the way he thinks.

"Our love is a _legend_ , one which did not exist until it did, and I was told that it would hurt me, that he would use me like a security blanket, long enough to feel good about himself, then discard me again - but that the _love_ would walk around with me all my life, a blessing and a curse,"

Deanna utters, finally pulling her eyes from his, turning her gaze to regard all the books that surround her, up and around the whole room, and she is just a girl in a fable, destined always to be the one to hurt.

She looks back to him, affording herself just one tear, and she tips her head to the side ever so slightly - a _tragedy_.

"Legends are so often warnings, after all,"


	14. White Whales

Author's Note:

Now that my exams are over it's time to update, and off the back of some _glowing_ reviews I have to say that I feel so motivated to carry back on updating. It can be easy to get too critical of your own work, and I've been sitting on this story for over a year before deciding to post it because I thought it was no good. Honestly, I hadn't been expecting this kind of positive reception, I don't even know anybody my age who's seen a single episode of Star Trek, so I'm just so grateful that there are people willing to give me their honest opinions, and encouragement.

It means a lot, I really can't say, so before I get embarrassingly gushy, let's just press on with the story. As usual, your reviews would be _massively_ appreciated.

* * *

He sees how her body is small amongst the grandeur of the house - when she walks him through into the library - sees how she was raised here but is not the embodiment of it, how she is _more_ , how she is made whole in the house of her enemies.

It was never a case of convincing her to stay her post, as he had thought, just a case of listening a moment to her words, as one who watches the watcher, allowing her to air her feelings for a little while.

And they had sat for too long, her tea gone cold, the sun creeping slowly to a point just slightly higher in the sky, a real rain having begun beyond the windows. She had told him she never had any plans to leave, feeling that he wanted to ask, and just like that the sentiment had been gone, and the girl had all but insisted on allowing him to browse their collections, to make sure that Mr Data had not become overwhelmed by the scale of it all.

Picard had let her steer the conversation towards their shared love of poetry, of just _good literature_ , because it had been easier than offering her further consolations than the promise to allow her the remainder of her Shore Leave alone, to have Will remove his things from her quarters, to have him step away for a time.

She had been grateful, though it was not terribly clear, and they had stood without discussing it much further. Then he saw her as he sees her now, terribly small surrounded by stacks and stacks of books, rows of shelves, a second floor, even, of bookcases with a twisted brass staircase leading to it, chairs scattered around.

She inspires as much awe amongst it all as the books themselves do alone, and he had not thought it possible for so many original copies to exist in one place - but the Troi's have them all.

Data is on the second level, sitting straight backed in a nook carved between the shelves, his eyes darting mechanically across the words of just one amongst a whole stack of books he has on his left. There is an equally impressive pile of discarded works on his right, all likely based on the historical events and mythology of Betazed, the kind that one cannot find in a database or a Starfleet library.

He has been allowed to convert the writings into bytes upon bytes of data, for his personal use only, as a friend of the Fifth House, on the condition that they not be uploaded to the interstellar Databases.

Picard is unsure exactly what the Betazoids are trying to conceal, if anything at all, but the relationship he has cultivated with the counselor is testament enough to the fact that he specifically requested to remain on the planet in place of Commander Riker - just in case.

And yet he still believes himself to be _inhuman_.

"Do you have everything you need, Data?"

She utters, it seems to herself, as she navigates through the corridors of shelves to find what she is looking for, but he can hear her voice clearly, as she had assumed he would.

"Yes Counselor, the material is very stimulating indeed,"

He calls back down to them, and Picard smiles to himself, following closely behind her as she moves, though it is not difficult, being that she is newly sluggish - not yet quite alarmingly so.

A small noise of delight escapes her as they come upon the corner of the room, beneath the timbered eaves of the upper floor, and there is a much shorter bookcase nestled in amongst a few deep blue plush bucket armchairs.

There are throw cushions around the floor, and blankets arranged just so, the corner layed about in perfectly organised disarray.

"Have a seat Captain, these are the classics,"

She has crouched herself down at the lowest shelf of books, and offers him the comfort of her home from over her shoulder, clearly a little distracted by whatever she is looking for. Tugging at his uniform tunic at last, he sits right into the back of one such chair, affording himself its comforts without feeling awkward as a Captain - completely at ease when surrounded by words, or maybe even something of the house itself.

Deanna turns back to him, one arm weighed down by a large leather bound book she has cradled against her chest, a much smaller and slimmer book at the end of her other arm. She hands him the larger one, leaving it to thud against the armrest of his chair, and she points a thin finger to the title - _Moby Dick_.

His face lights up.

"You once told me your white whale was to finish this book, my father could never finish it himself, though I'm sure _you_ will find it more enjoyable to try,"

She returns to a chair across from him, grabbing up a blanket as she goes, then curling her short legs up under herself amongst the cushions of the seat.

"I'm surprised you remembered Counselor,"

He responds gratefully, but she looks up to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowing slightly in a way that is dangerously close to good-humoured, but still lingers with some other unidentifiable sense.

" _Deanna_ ,"

Captain Picard corrects himself before she can say anything to him, _knowing_ , then he points to the old worn book that she has between her own hands now, the title obscured from his view.

"Might I ask what _your_ white whale is then, seeing as you know so much of mine?"

His eyebrows follow along suggestively as he speaks, and for a moment they could just be two old friends, talking as though they have known each other for years, and not just the one. It is something she inspires in those she becomes close with, the feeling that she is ageless and infinite, that she knows you so deeply and keenly she may as well just be a twin who you had never known was walking beside you your whole life.

"The Velveteen Rabbit,"

Deanna responds fondly, pulling back the loosely bound hard cover, the whole thing as though it may fall to pieces any moment.

"I have been thinking about it a lot lately, it's something my father used to read to me,"

Her eyes leave his and turn downwards towards the words of the first page, her finger brushing lightly against the surface of the paper; without moving, she adds:

"There is just as much meaning in ten words as there is in ten thousand,"

Picard just nods, knowing she can't really see him anyway, but appreciating the sentiment so thoroughly that he hopes she can feel it.

He feels no need to say anything more to contribute to conversation, and he has already told her that he only has the morning with her, but that he will not leave without lunch and a good book. Looking down to where he has maneuvered the novel to his lap, he opens out the spine to reveal the many aged pages of it, trying to find where he was at last time he tried to tackle it, enjoying simply the feeling of the yellowed paper between his fingers. He then looks up to see where Deanna is reading through her own book, the tale of wanting to be _real_ , to be _wanted_ , her lips moving along in silence. She has one hand beneath her stomach, as it continues to have grown, supporting the swell of it in a motion that could either be caring, or just _necessary_. His eyes turn sad.

 _White whales indeed_.

* * *

She falls asleep after eating lunch, and Picard is not an exhausting man to be near, but he is gone now. And there is something marvellous about being near to Data that she has yet to be able to vocalise; so many question her pleasure at being around him, why it is that she can tolerate his complete lack of emotion.

To say she senses nothing from him would be a lie, but then to suggest that what she senses is _emotion_ would be a lie also. He takes up space in her mind like just another thought, but she can almost tell when he is near to her, and so it is getting much harder for the android to catch her off-guard, his creeping presence like a dim golden light in her mind.

He has taken Picards seat with gentle solidarity, moving on to the books at the ground level, still with many more in front of him than behind. He does not mind that she is sleeping, and from what he has been told by Dr Crusher and Captain Picard, it is rather necessary, though he does not possess adequate information on the gestational process of Betazoids to make any clear personal judgements as to why.

Through his sensory periphery he notices that her heart rate has increased from her resting baseline, her core temperature has experienced a slight rise also, and her breathing rate is elevated to match both of these things. These biological functions are logged in a separate set of data entry he has allocated to her care, before he turns upwards to regard her facial expression.

The Counselor appears distressed, her face is pinched into pursed lips and creased brows, her eyes are clenched shut. One slight groan escapes her as she shifts hastily about in her seat, and he works to determine what his response should be.

"Counselor Troi,"

His voice calls out, raised to a level that he is informed will wake her, and it almost shocks her into waking in a way he had not anticipated.

She takes in a sharp breath, her eyes break open and she searches out his face, having trouble focusing her attention for a few seconds.

"I believe you have experienced a night terror, Counselor,"

Data explains, and she pulls herself upwards in her seat to sit not so slumped, drawing breath in a learned and immediate relaxation technique; she is glad for his presence.

"You are safe and well,"

He adds after a brief mechanical moment of searching his data banks, but the gesture is comforting despite its origins, just as he had hoped it would be, and this elicits a smile from her, small and tired.

"Thank you Data,"

Deanna says through a stifled yawn, and he notes how one of her hands travels without thought to the cover of that same book, and the other in much the same way, to her stomach, two fingers exerting more pressure than the rest over one particular spot. He chooses not to comment on the latter.

He observes how her hands join together deliberately, after approximately 27.9 seconds, to open out the book, and on this he chooses to comment.

"Counselor?"

"Yes Data?"

She turns her eyes upwards to regard him with affection.

"Is there a passage in your book that you are struggling with?"

Data asks innocently, and she is almost certain he is not trying to be offensive.

"Not at all, why do you ask?"

She responds, shutting over the cover as soon as she has opened it; he turns his head to the side in question, a gesture she recognises of Lieutenant Alabed in Engineering - and it is very endearing indeed.

"I have noted this to be the fifth time you have begun to read _The Velveteen Rabbit_ in the past 247 minutes, I was wondering why you continue to reread the text when the outcome is fixed?"

His question is a delightfully pure one, and it draws a pleasant and genuine smile to her face, though with it comes the memory of a time she had tried to ask the same question of herself.

" _You're awake,"_

 _She turns away from the end of the bed, where she is reaching down to zip on her boots, and cranes to look back at him where he lies still beneath the sheets._

" _I am,"_

 _Will sighs at her shortness, but he couldn't really have expected much else, could he?_

 _She has no real idea why she is there at all, whether the night they spent was as much for him as it was for her; maybe it wasn't a great idea to let him talk her into coming over to his quarters after Tasha's memorial._

 _But dammit she needed some distraction from all the pain the crew was working through, she needed to_ _ **breathe**_ _._

 _She sighs, and stands, his eyes following her though she has turned back away from him._

" _You're leaving,"_

 _The man states, not even a hint of question to him, and it saddens her that she cannot feel a particularly strong sense of upset from him - that she is leaving._

 _He got what he wanted after all._

" _I am,"_

 _She finds herself stood with her back to him in the doorway, thinking of_ _ **Tasha**_ _, and of how foolish she is to even be here, how shallow of him to use the memory of a friend to finally get her back into bed, after months of being told_ _ **no**_ _._

 _She turns around:_

" _I do not know why I thought this would be a good idea,"_

 _She questions herself aloud, and he is already falling back asleep lightly, not trying terribly hard to listen to her anymore._

" _You are not my favourite book Will,"_

 _Her hands graze the surface of the only book he possesses, the biography of a Jazz musician he admires greatly, as she moves further away from him._

" _So why do I continue to read you over and over again?"_

 _Will looks up before he can drop off, his head cranes a little upwards to watch as she goes, something in the sound of her voice telling him he maybe has made a mistake, but it is too late to take very much of it back now._

" _The ending will never change,"_

"It's comforting, Data,"

"Comforting?"

The man's eyes are starkly golden, and she is sucked back into the present where they are boring into her, scrutinising her absence in the second that she was gone.

"There is... _permanency_ , to the words - they are fixed, they do not _change_ ,"

Deanna tells him, unsure if she is really saying much of anything at all, but he nods, seems to be following, and so she goes on.

"We can find comfort in consistency, when so many things are always changing around us, it can be therapeutic to reread things we have read before, and the ending ceases to matter so much as the meaning,"

She reaches back for the book, turns over the cover, feels herself in her youth as she was the _velveteen rabbit_ , desiring always to be _real_ , to be able to hop like the other rabbits could. Her father said hopping would not matter so much once she had shown them she could fly.

Data nods, satisfied with her explanation, but there is one more question lingering in his neural net.

"Are you feeling the therapeutic benefits then Counselor?"

 _Here was once a velveteen rabbit -_

"Not yet, Data…"

* * *

She finishes the book a few more times, reading very slowly, and aloud in her mind, so that anybody who tries to find her will be met only with her story. And for the child, in a peculiar way that she cannot explain, hoping somehow it will be kinder to her.

Data, of course, has finished all the books of the first Age of Contemporary Betazed - ancient but not so far removed from modern day as to be unrecognisable. He disappeared moments ago, to sort away what he had taken out, but he has been gone for much longer than she might expect.

Through the house, she all of a sudden hears his footsteps.

"Commander Riker, you are not permitted to enter,"

She loses all the air from her lungs, because she cannot feel him at all, there is a clean wall of slate up around her mind, between the two. Deanna shuts her eyes, remembers how a moment ago she had flinched, without realising really why, and around the feeling a shield had erected like second nature, the same as _before_.

"Where is she, I need to speak to her,"

Will's voice is frantic by the time it reaches her, and she is fortunate that she cannot feel what is inside of him. She follows the sound of Data as he relinquishes his grip slightly on the front door, opens it a little to speak with him.

She feels a heavy weight slam into her chest, and lunges forwards in her chair, the blanket, book and pillows falling loudly from her lap. The feeling is there again, like someone walking into her body over and over, a heavy entity that will not cease. A hand moves to scratch at her chest, a different, peculiar feeling of breathlessness in her heart.

Pain rises in her head.

"Commander Riker?"

Data's voice is becoming concerned in its synthesis, and there is a sound like energy diffusing across a shield, in time with the new beating of her chest.

"What the hell is this?"

Will yells, clearly feeling an injury that she can feel too, and yet he continues to try to push inside, the pressure in her head rising to the point that she yells out herself, bundles the pain into a great orb of red light, then forces it outwards from her.

Deanna screams, Will roars, the two flying in opposite directions, one before the eyes of an android, backfiring across the lawn, and the other with no witness at all.

In one instant her consciousness is without her, and she can hear how Data calls for him to be beamed off the planet surface as he himself moves towards her, reacting to her scream.

"Counselor Troi are y-"

Her consciousness does not linger.


	15. Aftermath

Note:

I hate cliffhangers as much as the next guy, and I'm gonna be busy over the rest of the weekend, so here's me just twisting the knife a little bit. It's worth saying actually that I'm a big ancient history buff, and it kind of bugs me that Betazed just seems to have _nothing at all_. They can't always have been so perfect. To remedy this I've tried to put my own little vein of mythology in there, maybe it misses the mark, but I enjoyed building it up as headcanon nonetheless.

Also, based on an interview Marina Sirtis did on the origin of Deanna's accent, some of the Betazoid words that have been popping up have been Hebrew, because no way am I clever enough to write my own language, and Hebrew literally has me melting with how beautiful a language it is. Also, I solved the problem of why Lwaxana doesn't have an accent and Deanna does, just for my own peace of mind to be honest. If you missed that then it's only a minor detail, it'll probably turn up in later chapters.

So for now, enjoy, and I'm going to issue another Imzadi apology for this one, I guess even if true love exists, some people just weren't meant for it?

* * *

She is 5 years old, and the bed's too large for her tiny little arms to reach from one end to the other; her toes will not reach its end.

The blankets are really too large for her, and a little too heavy for her sleeping limbs to lift, so she rolls onto her side.

A hand that is not her mother's reaches for her shoulder to stop her.

"No, Deanna, you need to lie still,"

A voice that is not her fathers tells her.

She tries to reach up to rub sleep from her eyes, but her hands won't even roll into fists, won't even respond a little to her call.

Her body attempts to roll again.

"Deanna, careful,"

There is something cold on her left temple, vibrating ever so slightly that it's like a dragonfly has landed on her with beating wings.

Whatever holds her down is not a blanket, as she had thought, and it shifts away at the response to somebodies moving hands, and suddenly she feels cold.

She wonders where her rabbit is, why it is not tucked beneath her chin, why she has a horribly aching tummy.

"Deanna?"

Her name is said for a third time by that same voice, neither mother nor father - she tries not to listen.

Why is there not a lullaby singing in her mind?

Colder air, still, reaches her skin, and she can feel how the tiny hairs all over her are sticking on end, prickling the exposure of her bare stomach, though why it is exposed she has no idea. Maybe she has the pox again?

"Deanna?"

Again, that voice calls her, but there is something so heavy in her mind, deep and dark and scarier than any ocean she has ever seen, eyes that float in the empty space, and a feeling of terrible physical fullness, mental emptiness.

She takes a look inside the void, tries to meet those eyes that are as familiar as her own, and, reaching a hand up to the surface of the pool, she finds them gazing back, older and _hers_.

They look into one another, hands pressed up against some kind of veil that is collapsing inwards, the younger self shuts her eyes to rest again, too tired to want to leave.

Older eyes open.

"Deanna, _finally_ ,"

Beverly's face is inches from her own, crouched at the bedside in a room she had not before seen. It comes into focus slowly, as Deanna's eyes try to adjust to the daylight that continues to filter in through the open windows; there is a draft blowing beyond a swinging silken curtain.

She blinks several times, in blurry slow motion, and her mind too is returning to her just as slowly.

Her body is exposed from the waist up, and she hadn't been wearing pants before, but somehow she finds herself dressed in the same sweats she had worn yesterday - her mother would think it awfully improper of a daughter of the fifth house.

The skin at her stomach is cold because the jumper has been folded over beneath her ribcage, and she does not yet know why.

Deanna groans, groggy, tries to reach again for the metal against her head, tries to roll her body over.

"No, you need to lie still,"

Beverly reiterates, and suddenly she can feel a hand on her shoulder holding her still, and another over her stomach, pushing down firmly at her sternum.

She yelps, her eyes open now widely.

"Sorry,"

It does not seem as though she means it.

The doctors one hand joins the other at her centre, until 10 fingers are less than gently pushing down at the bump that has grown there, becoming more pronounced with each passing day.

She wishes she could make her lungs do anything other than respire, and let off the occasional hiss of pain, to maybe ask _why_ this is necessary, but her head still throbs so much that her attention is divided between two tasks.

"When did the baby last move?"

Beverly's hands stop, and she is looking down at the girl all propped up on pillows, as though the answer is an easy thing to find.

"I do not -"

Deanna's voice breaks as she murmurs.

"Why?"

"You've been under _unusual_ stress lately, I want to make sure this is just a temporary reaction to the increased levels of adrenaline and not an ongoing issue,"

Beverly is very quick in her response, and even as she speaks there is some sharp feeling deep within her stomach, but it does not seem to be a movement of any kind. Again, Deanna moans softly at the sensation.

"The baby is fine, I know,"

She responds sagely, gesturing with the fingers of one frozen hand in the direction of her head, and so Crusher nods her understanding.

"You have a kidney infection too, I knew letting you leave the ship was a bad idea,"

Deanna does not dignify this with a response, the pressure behind her eyes building again for a moment until she squeezes them tightly shut; this does not go unnoticed.

"And however impressive it is to see you incapacitate Commander Riker, that shouldn't be at the expensive of your health,"

Beverly chides, but already her voice is softening as she moves to sit beside her on the big queen size bed, perched just upon the edge next to her head.

"What are you doing to yourself Deanna?"

The girl tries to centre herself, to draw her breathing inwards and into something steadier than the shallow sleeping sounds she had been making. The pain in her head appears to quiet, to dull and slip back into the recesses of her mind, to fall down into that black hole she has now within her.

"I have never done that before,"

Deanna utters, more shame than awe at her own strength, because it must have come from a place of ugly emotion, of such pent up agony that the power of her mind surpassed what she could control.

Her mother has only done it once - the day her father died.

"Why did you, was he hurting you?"

Beverly cannot control her own curiosity, but she continues to keep her voice low, and one hand moves to hold the back against Deanna's clammy head, smoothing away the sticky hair there.

"No,"

The woman is relieved, until she speaks again.

"But he would have,"

"What?!"

Crusher's voice rises slightly in her concern, her hand freezing and pulling away so that she can regard the expression on her face with surprise.

"I should know better than to trust my heart to him by now,"

Deanna sighs, and she pauses for a beat, listening to the sound of fluttering fabric.

"I do not have it in me to be hurt by him when I am dealing with this,"

She gestures down at her stomach, the skin still prickling and raised up with goosebumps; the feeling returns to her arms enough that she can push her jumper back down and conceal what truly hurts her.

"Not again,"

She finally rolls over without resistance, away from Beverly and towards the open window, onto her left side where the baby chooses to come alive with a flurry of tiny kicks.

One against her kidneys and she has to take in a sharp breath.

Beverly watches her back for a second, perpetually wondering what there is between the Counselor and Commander Riker, but maybe it is better that they are apart, if what happened earlier is any indication of the damage they can cause each other.

"Captain Picard is furious with him, as soon as he woke up he -"

"Woke up?"

Deanna interrupts, turning her head slightly to look over her shoulder at where Beverly is silenced, face a little stunned at her uncharacteristic behaviour.

"You knocked him _unconscious_ , Deanna,"

She explains gently, a little confused that she hadn't even realised what she'd done to him.

The girl closes her eyes tight shut and moves her head back to face the window, nuzzling down into one of the pillows she is propped up on, all the lights around her suddenly too bright.

"Oh,"

She breathes, barely audibly, and Beverly herself lets out a little sigh of pity maybe, but she can't be quite sure how she feels towards her, at least as a doctor she knows where she stands.

"He's fine now though, and he won't be back down to the planet while you're here, the Captain has confined him to his quarters on account of your condition,"

"My condition?"

Deanna still does not understand what she's done.

" _Yes_ , you almost gave yourself brain damage keeping that shield up, and we don't know enough about this kind of technology to say what it's effects are in pregnancy,"

Beverly stands from the bed as she speaks, then walks around the edge of it to crouch in front of her face, chasing down her attention just so she knows she has it.

"The baby is fine, _I know_ ,"

The girl repeats what she said before, but now with the inflection that says she is irritated at having to say it again, the feeling that Beverly _isn't listening_.

"That may be, but _you_ aren't, you're running a temperature, your kidneys are trying to _shut down_ ,"

Beverly impresses upon her, the two of them trying to make the other understand something they neither can't - it is a hollow pursuit.

"That is not the fault of my planet though, of being away from you, it would have happened regardless,"

"But at least I wouldn't have to worry about what's going on in your head as well as your body,"

A beat.

"I thought you were in a good space with Will, I just can't understand why you're pushing him away,"

Deanna feels in her an irrational surge of anger, strong and nauseating - she can barely control it.

"You do not need to _understand_ to hear me when I say, that I do not want to give myself to him just to satisfy his guilt, when I have spent so long rebuilding myself in his wake,"

She takes a deep, ghastly breath.

"He does not _get_ to keep changing his mind about what he wants - if I was not enough for him when we were to be wed, then I will never be enough,"

Beverly squints at her, wondering if she's heard this correctly, but there is nowhere to look of Deanna's emotions, because her eyes have turned dark and empty - deep like the vacuum of space.

" _Married_?"

She echoes, pinpointing finally where she had stumbled, wondering if at last she might understand the magnitude of their relationship. It is clear that Deanna does not want to answer.

"We were meant to marry on Risa, years ago, but he never came, he chose his career instead of me and left me there alone. I wanted to believe the best of him, but I could only wait so long,"

"Deanna, you never said,"

Beverly is brimming with pity, uncomfortable and terrifying in it's sudden force.

"It did not matter,"

The girl responds, as if she believes herself that it really didn't, as if she's been telling herself the same lie over and over until it feels like the truth. Beverly can feel that it is not, it must not be, she cannot possibly be saying something which is _true_.

And there isn't really anything she can say to that, to console her or to make her feel as though this is ordinary, as though everybody gets left at the altar at least once. Maybe hundreds of years ago, in terrible television soap operas, but not in a century of heroics, and science, and _noble men_.

All this time she has believed with vehemence that Will Riker is a good man.

Deanna shuts her eyes against the memories, the pain.

* * *

Will Riker is not a noble man.

In his bedroom, after the war, the world has fallen silent.

His head hurts more than he can remember it ever hurting before; it is because of _her_.

And the door is locked behind him, a no-name security guard at it's panel to prevent entrance or exit; the Captain did not state for how long.

Shoes, pants, his uniform tunic are all in a trail behind him, leading up to the foot of his bed, and he is standing almost naked - met with a terrible fate.

All he wanted to do was talk to her, and hope that maybe he would have words enough to explain, but even before he had fully materialised on the planet's surface he could feel that there was something amiss. Even the air had tasted different - it's bitterness still lingers in the back of his throat.

Beverly had given him such a look of faith, that he was sure she would never be able to believe this of him, that he had _hurt_ Deanna, when he had been entrusted with her care. Removed of whatever romantic attachment there may be between them, as an officer it was his _duty_ to care for her in the wake of her pregnancy, and he had failed.

The good doctor will never be able to look at him again.

He cannot even look at himself.

And however disgusted he is at how this has played out, he is still confused, still self-righteous. He stares down at the sheets he had been unable to sleep in last night as their conversation played through his mind over and over.

The look in her eyes, as though she was haunted simply by the presence of him, and he cannot fathom still what he did wrong this time. He has treated her with such care that she may as well be made from glass, he had only slept with her because she _needed it_ , as keenly as any of them need oxygen.

He cannot understand.

They dreamt together of a baby bird, and he wonders now if that maybe meant more than he considered at the time, more than just the machination of a terrified mind. Maybe he didn't give her terror enough credit.

The world swims for a second, and the room is just another of these illusions he has no control of; his brain feels all of a sudden much too full.

Deanna is lying naked, wrapped up in his sheets, her head cradled soundly by his own pillow.

He blinks, but she does not leave him.

"Imzadi?"

His mouth moves around the word noiselessly, and he can't hear a single thing.

"What has become of you William?"

She asks him, but she has not even moved a single millimeter - the sound leaks in through the very walls.

"You used to be better,"

He shuts his eyes, but there is no escape, instead he is thrust into the image of a formless woman writhing above him, her face cycling through a thousand expressions of pleasure, a thousand different women he has had so many times before.

A breathe forces itself into him, his eyes break open, and Deanna is now only inches from his face, her fingers ghosting the surface of his skin.

"I could not have been enough for you,"

She's crying, and he wonders if he has put those tears there.

"You are just like your father: restless, unsatisfied, _greedy,_ "

Her voice is so bitter, he must have made her this way, because her tongue has come out in barbs that are laced in venom - he stumbles backwards, stabbed.

"I forgave you my conquest, a wager made in youth ought not determine the course of a fated relationship, but I cannot forgive you this,"

"What -"

Will manages to choke out, her phantom descending upon him again, no matter how he continues to scramble away from her.

"What have I done, I wanted to be there for you, I was going to care for you,"

"So you could feel _absolved_?"

Somewhere beyond himself, he can see that the room is too dark to see anything at all, and yet somehow he finds her ghost there like an ethereal light, casting flames into every corner, every crevice where the darkness could hide.

He wonders if he is not in his room at all, if maybe he is stuck inside his mind.

"You _sleep_ with me, _hold_ me, _care_ for me,"

She is not crying at all.

"And you forget that I can _feel you_ -"

A banshee wail now, and if she were not naked still, rags would be flowing about her in tatters, her arms reaching from their confines and out to where her image attempts to swat at his face.

But it is not even her at all.

"I can feel when you _fuck_ another woman,"

The ghost spits, and he shuts his eyes in shock, knowing it is not even the phantom of Deanna who speaks, the words so deeply ingrained in him that he can know only that he has done this to himself. A nameless woman's face appears above his own, in the memory of his bedroom, _after the war_ , and she is growling an ecstasy that they share, forgetting even her name for the pleasure of him.

Will's eyes disappear in front of him, and he is not seeing anything at all.

He groans, and the sound is absorbed by whatever is beneath him - a mattress, God knows how.

Eyes return to him, and he opens them to abject, consuming darkness, the world appearing like a horizon in his vision. Beneath his leaden body, his hands clench their waking, and he tries to wriggle them free, exhausting in waking from whatever phantom he had seen.

It had not been real, in any sense. It hadn't even been _her_.

And he is just a deadweight on velveteen.

* * *

The sun is gone from the veiled windows when she opens her eyes again, and it hangs now more highly in the sky, centred at the top-most point of the house, so that all the air is warm and comforting. It is a unique kind of technology, one which concentrates the energy of the sun at one point of divinity, channeling it into the elements which heat the house.

The familiarity of it is almost painful.

She is acutely aware that she shares the room with another, and as her mind adjusts fully to this waking world, it does not take long to feel who it is.

The woman's thoughts are like a bolt of lightning through her spine.

Outside her periphery, the faint sound of a chair rocking back and forth attempts to divide her attention, but does not succeed.

"Doctor, I am fine,"

Deanna mumbles into the pillow, her mouth turned inwards towards it, and sleep lacing her voice with brittality.

The rocking stops, and feet fall heavily against the wooden floor. All of a sudden, a face blocks her vision.

"Did you call me, are you in pain?"

Beverly asks, crouching beside the bed, her whole body leaning in against the girls so that their faces are mere inches apart.

Once again, Deanna shakes her head against the cushion, tries to angle a little out so that her words are not so muffled.

"I said, I am fine, you can stop worrying now,"

Beverly's expression does not even soften a little, her eyes, if possible, draw even more tightly together at their centre.

"If I could stop worrying then I wouldn't be sitting down here watching _you,_ "

She chastises, reaching out the palm of her hand against Deanna's forehead, and maybe her agitation would be more genuine if there was any emotion behind it, but the whole thing is terribly staged.

"You do not really feel that way, if you wanted to you would have a nurse watch me instead,"

"You know I care about you though,"

"I know you feel responsible,"

Their eyes meet, and words that have never been said are suddenly too difficult to hear; Beverly, in this moment, resents her for being so damn intuitive, for pushing _so hard_.

"You - you're my patient...why wouldn't - of course I feel…"

She is floundering, feeling all of a sudden that she is sitting in therapy, and she has always found it to be helpful, but now - she cannot tell if this is chaos, or if it is catharsis.

"Beverly,"

Deanna responds, still looking up out of the corners of her eyes, sleepy and squashed in to the side of the pillow, and somehow still counselling her way through her own problems.

"You feel _responsible_ ,"

From anybody else this would be agonising, just another somebody telling her how she feels, but again, there is that strangeness to the girl, that she is otherworldly, and Beverly cannot help but be caught in the trance.

There are too many moments of silence that follow, and in one final sweep of waking, Deanna is dragging her body up against the headboard, pulling the sheets with her to cover her up to her shoulders, and coming to settle further from the face that still has not moved.

"Please just say it,"

Deanna asks, and deep inside the doctors mind she is cowering behind a cloak that is transparent, hoping beyond hope that she _will not_ have to say it.

But there is a look in the girl's eyes, one which if tasked, she would not be able to replicate, one of a deep need, and maybe this is no kind of therapy at all - and so Beverly unfreezes, and _tells her_.

"I should have advised termination,"

She blurts, her body animated in one moment so that she can turn to face Deanna, all kinds of sincerity burning up her skin.

"I made an error in judgement and I'm sorry,"

Deanna's eyes track the doctor's movements as she goes to stand, but does not quite get so far as to kneel further up on her haunches, arms rested atop her thighs, drained of whatever energy she once had in her.

"I'm your physician, you should be able to trust me and I gave you bad advice,"

She adds finally, so disappointed in herself that it shows more on her face than even inside her mind, and a spidery hand reaches itself into her hair, where it has unloosed from a bun at the nape of her neck.

Deanna wants to say something that will help, but maybe this has been what she's thought all along, and now that it's been voiced for her, it's as though she cannot even bring herself to object. But then, as with all things, she remembers she has a job to do, and she is so used to being a sounding board that there is little else she can do but _heal_.

"You gave me the advice you thought I needed to hear, it was the best anybody could have made of the situation,"

She tells her, really tries to mean it, beyond the fatigue, beyond whatever pain may still be looming behind her eyelids; she tries to mean it, but she is not sure that she does.

Beverly can only blink in muted response, shocked even that a Counselor never stops counseling, and yet she herself had taken the license to stop doctoring.

It is a sorry state of affairs.

"No,"

The doctor responds, indignant almost.

"I should've done it differently - more than that, I _could have_ , but I chose not to,"

A beat.

"When you said _innocence_ , I gave in, I took your word for it when really it was my duty to challenge that belief with medicine, and hard facts,"

Her hands pull out of her hair, down to rest on the edge of the mattress to push her body up in a motion that is abrupt. She walks 3 paces away towards the window, and then sweeps around in thought.

" _Innocence_ , Deanna, is not enough to risk your life on - and I should have told you that,"

Beverly says, not even looking into the girls eyes anymore, fear that she will be unable to speak any words at all clouding over her vision until the room is nothing but clouds.

They might as well be halfway towards space.

Much more slowly, more contemplatively, Deanna's own hands push away the small hairs that scratch her face, push at the tight skin around her temples; she is caught between two halves of herself.

"On my planet,"

She begins softly, terrified that they have landed here.

"The children are all _loved_ ,"

Her fingers play lightly back in her lap.

"Nobody is unwanted,"

Beverly flares up in an attempt at apology, but it seems she cannot be heard at all.

"I understand that - on other worlds - women are not always afforded complete dominion of their bodies,"

Deanna sounds out, staring now straight into the Doctor's eyes, but seeing nothing really of her at all.

"I understand that is _normal_ , for Human's,"

She takes a single, shallow breath.

"But for Betazoid women, a child has never been had that was not _wanted_ \- a woman's mind is capable of much love, but love cannot be fabricated - it is possible _decide_ , "

Beverly starts to shake her head - she is making little sense.

"Imagine I do not want this child - would you not expect it now to be gone?"

Deanna poses, frankly, and it takes more than a few seconds for the Doctor to think she has caught the meaning.

"Deanna,"

There is a terrible moment of trepidation.

"You didn't…?"

Beverly shakes her head more firmly now, trying not to jump ahead of herself, hoping she is mistaken.

All of a sudden, Deanna looks too small amongst the sheets.

"It is not cruel, but cruel actions make it possible,"

She states, desiring something more adequate which she knows she does not possess.

"For me, it has not worked,"

"You're telling me there's a way that Betazoid women can..."

Deanna nods her head solemnly; all the air is now stale and full of a topic the human in them both finds hard to stomach, no matter how far they profess to have come.

"Maybe, because you're only half -"

"No,"

She is strangely certain, and Beverly has to squint through the fog to get to her.

"Then that must mean on some level, you... want it?"

Again, the girl shakes her head, tragically resolved; her mind made up a long time ago.

"I made a choice not to let _you_ try, because it was easier than trying to help you understand,"

A beat.

"I made a _choice_ , because I did not want it to _be your fault_ ,"

Deanna smiles, a terribly weak and unfunny thing.

"I wanted to feel as though I _had_ a choice,"

And Beverly finds herself breathing in so deeply that it burns, because they both know, that was no choice at all.


	16. Zebra Fish

Authors Note:

I'm so sorry to see that there are people not enjoying the turn this story has taken. I'll be honest, these latest chapters are not new material, and have been quite solidly finished for a while now, so I guess I could have warned you ahead of time. That's not to say that the ending is fixed, I don't actually have one word written on it at the moment, but in my mind, this story has never been about the Will/Deanna dynamic, rather how the story should have been written, and how to stay true to the characters, whilst remaining realist. _Realistically_ , I don't think, with the characters where they were literally at the beginning of season 2, either of them could have been expected to be so compassionate or so selfless in response to what happened. Similarly, the one aspect of the original episode that I could see some thought in, was actually the _thoughtlessness_ of Riker himself; I guess it's a lot easier to say what we _would do_ in any given scenario, as opposed to the truth. This story, I hope, is erring on the side of truth that episode managed to squeeze in, and not the fantasy.

All that being said though, I don't want to deter any readers from coming along the rest of the way with me, I swear it gets so much better, and it might seem like we're hating on Riker - maybe you aren't here for that - but it won't be this way for the rest of the story. If you have any suggestions for me, or just want to tell me I'm a monster for keeping these two apart, then absolutely feel free to do so, it's going a long way to shaping the writing of my later chapters.

Needless to say, I walked into this with my angst hat firmly on, it'll be at least a few more chapters until I finally get it ripped off my head by the hands of _true love._ I shudder at the thought.

* * *

The Enterprise is a marvellous feat of engineering, glorious even, her size and host unrivalled by any other ship in the federation. She is sleek in the sphere of outer space, and her internal systems are some of the most coveted in the galaxy. Even when compared side by side with a Romulan cruiser, asides from the cloaking technology that continues to elude the federation, she can far outmatch them in sheer firepower. And that's not to say that she's a warship by any means, but she is more than prepared to fight if the need arises, for protection purposes but never as a simple offensive. The lady can sprint across space, and yet she can sneak at speeds so minuscule a man could walk faster - she is unsinkable, _titanic_.

And at her heart, beats the warp core, solid and blue like a pure ocean, supercooled to the point it is always moments away from freezing over; a perfect balance of matter and antimatter, dreadful dichotomy. Her veins are far reaching, and they spread across all of her body through conduits that soar with energy, fuelling all of her vital organs: engineering, transport, weapons, life support.

Her blood cells are the crew, in a most peculiar way, and so they can be infected, they can be infiltrated by disease and viruses until she is feeling the sting. The crew are integral, and they are flooded throughout her systems, they flock, occasionally they haemorrhage and she screams their loss through open wounds, but usually, they are what animates her, gives her life.

And so she buzzes with the activity, she hums the sound of her heartbeat, her pulse quickens at the wrists of her bridge, her blood rushes back and forth with urgency: she is a feat of engineering so great that demons would run, but her machinery is not what makes her exceptional.

Her host, plucky and dedicated, from all across the galaxy, in colours and creeds that encompass more than just simple humanity, are her lifeblood - but there is a virus onboard, and it is spreading.

The Enterprise can feel that her crew is less than it ordinarily is, that there is something aboard which threatens the balance, something which affects them all. And she can see who it is, distinctly, the _feeling one_.

The one who heals others has within herself something which needs healing, an atrophy that she can feel across the whole crew, in varying degrees of strength, that finds root with the one who feels.

This one is not well, she can tell in the way they have returned to her much more slowly than before, and the illness is contagious, though she has no idea how. Other _ones_ can feel it, and they themselves have become slow too, and so her blood is not rushing anymore, it is heavy, it clots, it _hemorrhages_.

There is something spreading in her blood, something peculiar, something not physically detectable, something so intangible that they themselves have not noticed, but she has, she can _feel_ , with almost as much conviction as the _feeling one_ , that there is sickness aboard.

There is a sickness aboard, and it has no name.

* * *

The zebra fish is watching him.

 _Everybody_ is watching him - Picard and Crusher - and he has nothing at all to say for himself.

They aren't even supposed to be there to discuss him, and somehow, he is terrified that is what it will turn into - because he has flown too close to the sun.

"How's your head today Commander?"

Beverly asks, beside him in the other seat at the Captain's desk, her eyes frowning into pinched edges; she is only really _formally_ concerned.

"Uh, yeah, better thanks,"

And that is a lie, because he had slept the whole night without once shutting his eyes, if only to hold on to the phantom of Deanna a little longer. Whatever it is she did to him, she left something of herself behind, knowingly he cannot be sure, and she now walks by his side, a reminder of what he has done.

"Good to hear Number One,"

Captain Picard interjects, a mug of tea customarily clasped between his fingers.

"I trust you learnt your lesson this time?"

He is not really asking a question - the guards outside his Quarters speak for themselves.

Will nods anyway.

"Well, Mr Worf is requesting his personnel back now we're underway again, so your detail is being reassigned,"

Picard sighs, reluctant.

"Try to allow her some space, Will,"

He is softer than before, perhaps for the presence of Beverly.

The doctor shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

"Surely she should be here for this, it's not right to discuss her wellbeing behind her back,"

"If it were anybody else, I might agree with you,"

He responds, ignoring Will's presence altogether, bringing the mug to his lips before speaking again.

"But I would imagine she will likely be following along anyway,"

Beverly frowns at him as he takes a sip of tea, then throws a sidelong glance at Riker, who just shrugs, glad that she's finally paid him one look that doesn't scream murder.

"Will, you've be living with her, do you have an assessment of her current state of mind?"

Picard asks around the steam, terribly desperate to turn this into something a little more productive than simple speculation.

"I'm not a professional but -"

He pauses his indecision.

"Well, this past week she's been… _different_ ,"

Blind in every other eye, he has very little comment to add, so terrified of causing her more harm than he already has, of turning her in based on a gut feeling he has little evidence to support.

"I've noticed it too,"

Beverly adds, swapping over her legs where they are crossed.

"I tried to suggest she see one of her own staff, but she wouldn't listen,"

"Could she be suffering with depression?"

The captain queries, disappointed in himself for not knowing the answer.

"Sadly, she might be the only one qualified to tell you,"

Will tries not say anything, he really does, but the phantom at his back has told him time and time again that they are wrong, that _he_ is wrong.

"I think -"

He starts, unable to stop himself.

"She seems, uh, traumatised, more than anything,"

His inflection is sheepish, and two sets of eyes land firmly on him - dubious.

" _Traumatised_?"

The captain echoes, taking another alarmingly casual sip of his tea.

"I hate that it needs to be said, Jean-Luc,"

Beverly interjects, forgetting herself in the moment.

"But what happened to Deanna,"

Finally, someone has had the guts to say her name.

"That was _rape_ ,"

And this feels like some kind of breach of confidence, but to anybody with half a brain, it should have been obvious.

The two men cannot look at eachother, or even really themselves, no matter the century they live in, this will always be a topic they neither can stomach.

It is sexism in its most squeamish form.

"She knows that, but she's definitely not dealing with it,"

"You're right,"

Will blurts urgently, trampling over the woman's compassion, her delicacy.

"I was trying to help her make a decision, but she couldn't listen - she knew how I felt about it,"

He breathes deeply.

"I thought about her like she had been _violated_ , I never said a word but she knew it and she shut me down,"

He turns sadly to look Beverly in the eyes.

"She refuses to be thought of that way,"

"Hold on a minute,"

Picard interjects, trying to break the understanding of his two officers.

"Are we suggesting she has PTSD?"

Beverly shakes her head, the gaze broken, and tries not to go any further down a rabbit-hole of broken confidentiality; Picard is probably right, whether Deanna can help it or not, she will be _listening_.

"Again, she's the counselor, and unless she appears derelict in her duties I can't order her to speak to someone, and neither can you,"

A peculiar and low growl leaves the root of the Captain's tongue, and he rubs at the rough hair that regrows atop his head, the palm of his hand grating the motion.

"This is an impossible situation,"

He comments, and there is another sentiment which brews within him.

"I can't help but feel we made the wrong decision,"

"We?"

Beverly digs, but there is a look in her eyes that wants to tell him more, wants to speak of a conversation she mustn't speak of - confidentiality riddles her. She fidgets the hands in her lap, and Will looks sidelong over at her again, his attention divided between the two.

"Doctor?"

He says, a question rising of him, completely missing what it is she's trying to say, or maybe just refusing to consider that of Deanna.

"I'm just saying, I don't get the impression our input would have made much of a difference,"

She replies, a poor excuse of saving herself, but the Captain thinks he might already understand, and Will refuses to alter his perception, to accept that he maybe doesn't know her as well as he used to.

Or maybe that he never knew her at all.

"This situation was always going to be impossible,"

She says now more to Picard, her eyes falling into sympathy and regret, but there is understanding between them, and it does not take him another sip of tea to decide to move on.

"There's no point in dwelling on it then,"

The Captain begins, setting down the mug on the surface of his desk; he starts to rub at his temples.

"How is she managing medically?"

Beverly has to resist the urge to cast a final murderous glance in Rikers direction, but she knows it will be counterproductive.

"I'm reluctant to give her an all clear on account of the fact that we just can't know what will happen on any given day,"

It is clear to which event she is alluding, and Will returns to his shame.

"But the antibiotics are working so her kidneys seem to be clear, and her silosynene levels are returning to normal, I still have some concerns about how much more her biology can accommodate though,"

The Doctor has to pause, breathe, calm herself a little to the sound of hard science.

"Betazoid women have been having babies for millions of years - there's a reason it's supposed to take ten months,"

She says sadly, matter-of-factly, and yet there still remains a kind of resolve within her - that she will do her best to keep Deanna safe.

And this is a promise people continue to make, but break all the same.

"Is there anything more I can be doing?"

Picard asks of her, concerned as he has been from the beginning that he is what holds her back, that he is not fulfilling his duty of care to her in the way that a Captain should.

He is worried that he is simply being a _bad friend_.

"I don't think there's much any of us could do, just keep an eye on her, look out for her,"

Beverly swallows her pride, and addresses Will also, begrudgingly accepting of the fact that he _is_ the first officer, and whatever he may have done to Deanna, he is still in charge of issues with personnel.

"Deanna hates to seem incapable, we know that, I think we should just take the lead from her - for now,"

"Thank you Doctor, you're doing a brilliant job,"

Picard praises her with a slight twinkle in his eye, wanting to be the one person at least to acknowledge that she has been doing good work, and that even though Deanna is the one to be looked after, the task of doing this is often a thankless one.

* * *

Her quarters still smell of him, and it has been 3 days since she's been back, she's had three days to try to rid herself of it but she still can't. When she beamed back aboard it was clear that he'd taken all of his things out of her space, but he had made no effort to tidy the tornado that left behind, and so she has made no effort either.

The whole place is a mess, the lights unbalanced, her own clothes strewn about in a daily effort to find _something_ that fits.

She cannot even recognise her own body.

And there are memories that continue to replay in her mind that she has no idea how to stop, can't pinpoint their origin and cut the power, and so these images are always grinding away until at once, they rush back.

" _It's sad,"_

" _What?"_

 _He pulls her in closer to his chest, kisses the side of her neck where the hair falls away. A log fire is burning lowly in the hearth before them._

" _That you ask about love, and people can speak only of heartbreak,"_

She has in her arms a roll of fabric that is suddenly very heavy, and though she is technically no longer _ill_ , she is still weak - weak with no clear reason why.

A lie has crept into existence that does not fit in.

That she will be _fine_ , that life is going to continue on as normal, that already there is nothing peculiar about what happens within her.

Nothing is _fine_.

A lie has crept into existence, a black hole that is inside her which contains no feeling at all, one which is consuming her slowly, that cannot be seen, that cannot be felt. But she knows it is there, because nothing has balance anymore, nothing is quite as easy as it used to be - all the lights of her big big starship have dimmed and she can see nothing of her future at all.

The mornings are becoming harder to fight against, and they are monsters which taunt her and dare her to wake once more, dare her to stand up to the rest of the day and to just wait and _see_ what happens.

Light duty doesn't help, it maybe makes it worse even, leaving her with too much time on her hands to slip into the abyss and try to examine its walls, to analyse herself from within as if she is not herself anymore. It is a strange feeling, and so subtly she is stealing the emotions of others to try to feel something herself; she goes into the joy of the children and pulls away just a little from each to piece together herself a patchwork of borrowed emotions - a captain's duty, a child's joy, a lover's delight.

They are starting to feel it, though they have no clue what it is and that it stems from her, so she continues to try to make herself a jigsaw puzzle of other people, hoping she can forget who she herself is.

She has never felt this way before, so incapable, so _helpless_. If this were anyone else then she would throw around the word _depression_ like it is obvious, like it is a diagnosis and not a symptom of something more. She worries constantly that there is more coming - _worse._

" _He is not good enough for you, little one,"_

" _Mother!"_

 _The two lock eyes across the kitchen counter, in the silence of the whole house, a voice each in the others mind._

" _What? I'm not allowed to express concern for my daughter?"_

 _There is an audible sigh._

" _Of course you are mother, but we are in love, we are_ _ **Imzadi**_ _,"_

 _Lwaxana attempts to conceal her jealousy, turning away and back towards the pot of tea she is busying herself with._

" _He is a human, he'll take advantage of that bond,"_

 _There is a silence of avoiding minds, a cloud of steam that rises into the air._

" _I just don't want to see you hurt,"_

She takes a large gulp of her tea, valerian root, and prays to the gods that tonight she will sleep for the first time since coming away from home, that her mind will not keep her awake thinking of terrible things, of Will, of a child, of _rape_.

She hates this word, she does not believe it applies to her, but somehow that is what is written on her medical file in the report to starfleet, the one Beverly asked her to authorise two days ago. It has been sent off, along with all kinds of information about her body that she doesn't care to know: her exact minute to minute blood pressure, her weight, the size of her belly, the growth rate and current size of the child - it's _gender_.

They call it rape because it is easier than the alternative, and because maybe it is simply the _truth_.

" _We do not get to choose what is done to us,"_

 _The young woman across from her curls her fingers into fists in her lap, the memory of a terrible time pungent in her emotion._

" _But we can choose for how long it is done,"_

 _She looks up in anger, thinking maybe there is an insinuation._

" _You can choose to let this define you, you can choose to wither,"_

 _Deanna fills herself up with a conviction she believes, and turns her gaze upon the young student, a woman in the class below her, attacked on campus - someone who could easily have been her._

" _Or you can choose to move forward,"_

 _She reaches a hand towards her knee, across the gap between chairs; the woman doesn't flinch._

" _Choose to_ _ **grow**_ _,"_

The steam sticks in her nostrils, only the dregs of a crushed root left behind in her mug.

Inside her, the child squirms - the _boy_ squirms.

And he is just the same as her really, a completely perfect genetic clone, only somehow not. Beverly tells her that they are made up of the same two halves, but that he is not a male version of herself, he is instead a rewrite of her own genetic makeup, similar in most ways, but different in a few. He is made from her, she _is_ his mother, and not his counterpart, but there is a small sleight of DNA which is illusive, _paternal_.

And this is the terrifying thought she returns to.

She desires more tea, but her body will not listen to her when she commands it to move, it will not comply to her demands and she is incapable of doing very much at all. Her mind has caught her on the inside, trapped her.

But she wants more, because she isn't at all tired yet, and it's so late in the night that it's almost morning. Valerian root is the only piece of Earth that has ever brought her any comfort since her father's death: an insomniac child, her grandmother had suggested it on a communique from Earth, to the despair of her mother, but there was nothing she could do for her and so they had tried it.

Ever since it has been necessary in dark times, to combat the insomnia that she has battled all her life, a technical benzodiazepine, a _sedative_ , the herbal remedy really had worked, but there is something about the replicators that dilutes its effect. Or maybe it is Beverly, tampering with the dietary parameters of her replicator to try to help her gain weight, to maybe even just stop her from losing it.

Perhaps that would work if she could bring herself to eat anything, but she is caught between a food aversion and a shrinking stomach, and so there really isn't anything much that she desires enough to expend the energy in replicating.

" _I think you should speak to another counselor, Deanna, there's something different about you,"_

 _Beverly is concerned, but it does not seem to matter._

" _Am I physically well?"_

 _The doctor sighs, it is evasion._

" _The infection is cleared, you're just over two weeks away from delivering, you're considerably underweight but otherwise I'd say you're_ _ **well enough**_ _,"_

 _Deanna moves to simply walk away without another word, but she is stopped._

" _Please Deanna, this isn't like you, you need to talk to someone,"_

" _And I suppose you know exactly what I_ _ **need**_ _,"_

 _She leaves, and Beverly is too stunned to say much of anything to stop her._

Her bed is lovely, and lonely, and though she's changed the sheets and washed her own blanket gently, it still smells of him, maybe even just of the trace of his mind, their passion. She tries to close her eyes but they keep on cracking in two again, glassy and staring through the darkness she sees ahead of her, trying to picture all the words in her mind as text in front of her.

Maybe Beverly had a point, and maybe she didn't deserve to have her head bitten off just for being concerned; but how does she maintain her professionalism when her staff begin to think her weak, seeking help from those less qualified than her?

Maybe that is a shallow thought.

She closes her eyes tightly, counts through all the numbers of rape cases she has dealt with, the number of manic depressives, of severe anxiety and insomnia. Their names are still inside her mind, because very little ever leaves, and she wants to know exactly what it was she said that helped them to move forward.

But nothing is ever so simple as a few words spoken aloud.

She digs her head down into the pillow when her eyes break open again, overwhelmed by her own sad truth: that she has been fixing other people just to avoid what is broken within herself, that she has not the strength within herself to be _fixed_.

The counselor within her reminds her to be gentle with herself, but when has anyone ever been gentle before; the pillow smells of him too.

" _Slowly, please,"_

 _His bed smells of sweat, and her tears, and the residue of a memorial service, and all the grief it bred._

" _I forgot,"_

 _Will is on top of her, not wasting his time on chaste kisses, focused on something else entirely, trying to steady his body to enter her. He is going too fast, forgetting how they were always a little incompatible._

 _She is so tiny beneath him, one slip of an elbow and he will crush her._

" _Imzadi,"_

 _He breathes into her, pushing against her with force now._

 _She winces, grabs a hold of his face to try to bring him into the moment, but it is clear he has decided on his goal, and this was clearly a bad idea._

 _In one movement she is too full, in pain, and her yelp is silenced by his mouth over hers, a dirty kiss she cannot recall._

 _He used to be so gentle with her, but his casual encounters have made him forget that she is not just any other woman, and he is bigger, clumsier than he thinks._

 _He pulls away from their kiss, and he groans the feel of her._

A tear gets caught on one side of her nose before falling into the other eye, and she inhales deeply, grief for what they used to have and what time has made of them instead taking its grip on her. The memory is painful, the baby is squirming its protest.

The night, again, is far too much.

Her black hole expands, and into it she throws these emotions she has no room for, one by one like gravel over a coffin top, until she is feeling nothing.

Before, she was sad, but now she is just numb, and somewhere inside herself, she knows that is much worse.


	17. Earl Grey

Captain Picard is drinking his own mug of tea - earl grey, _hot_ \- and he's wondering just what to do about her, not for the first time, what would be _best_ for her.

It's late, but he's chosen to take a later shift than usual, and the monitor in front of him is open on her file. He remembers speaking with an older commander, sage and assured, describing to him exactly the woman that would walk onto his bridge, take up space on his ship, and she had sounded 100 years older than she is.

The woman had been her C.O. for the entirety of her service in Starfleet, the time she had spent posted to a research vessel after being transferred from Betazed once she had completed her Phd.; Commander Alaric, a Vulcan woman and a scientist at her heart, it was surprising to hear her speak with fondness, with a _we_ even.

Picard breathes in through the steam from his mug, a catharsis between the veil it creates and the screen on the desk. She really looks no different than she does now, only that she wears her hair down instead of in that severe bun, and there is something a little more angular in her features that only age could have done to her.

Beside her picture is her complete service record, all the way back to her original application to the academy, complete with promotionary awards and even a medal for exemplary service. He doesn't think he wants to know the story behind that one, it took the destruction of the Stargazer for him to earn a medal of that standing, and she is so young, so unassuming that maybe to find out would ruin him.

In the 'reason for application' section of her record, there are surprisingly few words, so not consistent with her usual disposition that it makes him smile a little even now, recognising the intensely personal woman he has come to know.

 _Why not apply? And might I ask, why half the Admirals in the Fleet applied, and if their answer would mean so much now as it did then, or even if it would be the same?_

He takes another sip of his drink and swallows it down harshly, scrolling down through the page until he reaches the letter of recommendation written by one of her professors from a school on Betazed, a man with a prestigious name he recognises well - Sal Tambaum. The man is notorious, an excellent teacher but a terrible judge of character, a Betazoid aristocrat and a snob to boot. His words are not surprising, but they are so full of prejudice, that it is hardly a recommendation at all.

 _Miss Troi is an exceptional student, she works hard to compensate for the deficits caused by her disability, and one may easily be fooled into believing she is as skilled as any full-blooded Betazoid. She benefits greatly from her breeding as a daughter of the Fifth House, and as such she demonstrates a unique taste for diplomacy likely inherited from her mother, as well as a keen understanding of many of the Federation Languages. She is dutiful in her studies and allocates little time to social activities due to her isolation in the classroom, and though this is unfortunate to see it is not unexpected. Miss Troi can be a precocious young woman at times, but the variety and inclusivity of the Starfleet organization will be a good fit for her, and as the only recorded individual of her particular genetic arrangement in the Federation, she will make an excellent addition to the diversity of Starfleet's collection._

The taste of the man's distaste is terribly sour in his mouth, wondering how life must have been for her growing up so different, so isolated. Tambaum had called it a disability, but among the crew of the Enterprise she is the most able of them all, exceptional even, a most-valuable asset. He cannot even begin to imagine how one could think of her as _less_.

The monitor scrolls further down into her Academy class records, and she had been a medical student foremostly, though it is clear that was not what she enjoyed. Her grades are consistent across all the classes she attended, including her defensive training as well as basic engineering and piloting skills. She was about as good a student as the Academy ever sees, and in amongst her high grades there is one which stands out.

The girl had been a marksman in her weapons training, certifiably a _mean shot_ , and they had trained with live as well as energy weapons just in case of coming upon a hostile planet and needing the knowledge of defense.

Her instructor had placed her as the sniper of the class, and as such she demonstrated a keen ability to service and properly maintain a sniper rifle, as well as camouflage techniques and evasive tactics including the construction of a fox hole.

Unsurprisingly, she did not continue the class past her first year, at the point where she could cease the activity she did, walked away with her certificates, a legacy for excellence and did not look back. It does not shock him that she didn't want to be known for a feat of violence, and the next year she was signed up for more advanced biochemistry and species specific medicine classes, anything to reclaim her own sense of benevolence and compassion - the fierce pacifist that she seems to all to be.

He scrolls again until he reaches her graduation statistics, fifth in her class and the only graduate to be awarded immediate post on Betazed to complete the last year of her Phd while working at the Institute for Psychological Research there. She had been working on a thesis paper during her time on Earth, an exceptional student indeed.

Then he comes upon her promotion to lieutenant, after earning the degree, and her refusal of its honorific on account of the perception that comes with being a Dr, and so she simply has a few letters that follow her name, and the ability to call upon a more professional title when she is under scrutiny for her age.

She was transferred to the science vessel Minerva, along with the Commander Alaric who chose her for the assignment due to her effectiveness on staff on Betazed. Her position aboard was largely one of research facilitation and crew support, as well as her own personal research into deep space assignments and their psychological effects. Once she came to be assigned to the Enterprise, her data was passed onto a professor at the Royal College of Betazed to continue on her work - it was very enlightened material indeed.

Her assignment itself was not without its controversy, her own Commanding officer had desired the position, but something made her step aside for Deanna, made her write a recommendation so fierce that the fact it comes from a Vulcan is nothing short of astounding.

She had even been promoted to Lieutenant Commander after an incident aboard the Minerva, but the file is _classified_ , and he's never once thought to look inside, citing that time as where she earned her service medal, and really, _truly_ not wanting to think of her that way.

He knows the rest from there, the formal event where they first met, however briefly, the way she called Riker _Bill_ that first day on the bridge, her discomfort at Farpoint, her _agony_ , really.

Since then she has made herself somehow into someone invaluable to him, and after this year he cannot even begin to fathom how he would function as well as he does in her absence. He hadn't even wanted a Counselor onboard, but somehow this tiny little woman had found a way to make it so that she was _needed_ , to seed herself so deeply in the crew that to think of anything, however slight, happening to her, sets the entire crew on tenterhooks.

Beside the monitor on his desk is a book she had given him, after Tasha's death those months ago, when he had been away from the bridge for a fifth day, and even Beverly did not have words enough for him. _She_ had said no words at all, and one evening there was a package on the desk in his quarters, wrapped in brown paper but not bound with any kind of twine, or sealed with a mark to identify the sender.

 _The whole place is dark, regardless of any lights that may be trying to illuminate his life - for the moment everything is blanketed in black. His hands lift the package and it seems heavier that it looks, sliding out of its loose wrapping to reveal the smoothly bound cover of a book. It is moderate in size, perhaps not too long of a read, but there is not title to indicate its depth or again, still, who has sent it for him._

 _The brown paper falls to the floor as he sweeps it out from the underside of the book, lifting and carrying it with him to sit on the low sofa at the centre of all this darkness. Here he has spent many a night meditating on themes of grief and death that have begun to surround him, where he has pondered some of life's greatest questions if only for the point of doing it, as if not doing so would make him less of a Captain, less of a_ _ **man**_ _._

 _Fingers graze the surface, smooth and bound in a very old kind of horsehair buckram, brown and coarse to the touch, and it feels as though he is holding something much greater than simply a book._

 _He coaxes open the cover with care, and a deep blue repeating pattern on card covers the inside two pages, both just as unmarked as the rest of the thing; slowly, an impatience arises within him._

 _Turning the next page over, he finds finally a slightly yellowed plain sheet of paper, and through the darkness there is light enough to read what has been inscribed there, in handwriting so tall and elegant that he finally knows who has sent him this gift._

'To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die' ~ Thomas Campbell

 _She has written out the words so that they encompass only one corner of the page, and the rest is inscrutably plain, as if there are supposed to be further things written there if only he could see them._

 _A smile graces his face at the feel of her care imprinted in the paper, the way she has made the words her own but never claimed them, the way her pen never once leaves the page until she is done, everything linked together, dependant on what comes before it._

 _Across from this page is the title, finally, in letters bolder and printed in black by a press, rather than in the deep purple of her pen._

 **A Confession**

 **And**

 **The Death of Ivan**

 **Ilyich**

 _That same smile remains on his face, and though he has never read these works before, he feels he knows them well, somewhere inside himself where he dare not venture._

 _And in such the way that she is, the tiny little woman has found exactly what is within him without ever speaking to him once, sent it to him god knows how, and left a note that is not even her own, reminding him to think on - that he is doing everything exactly how he should._

 _He comes upon the name of the author at the bottom of the page, 'Works by Leo Tolstoy', and he still cannot swipe that solemn smile from his face, so instead he begins to read, turning to the next page, and then the next, until finally the darkness that he sees lets up enough to let in those lights that have been around him all along._

The book is in his hands somehow, and his mind is reeling over the sensation of its memory, wondering if there is anything that comes close to this kind of gesture that he can provide for her - if maybe he has provided it already. It's terribly ironic, he has decided, that the one person he might turn to for advice in this kind of situation, is the very woman who he needs help with, needs guidance on how to guide. After all, she is one of his sheep, only she is much more lost and she has strayed far from the flock, leaving them all wondering the same things, and how on earth she can be helped.


	18. Water

Will tries forgiveness on like a cloak that won't fit him anymore. It is something that used to be snug, tightly wrapped over his shoulders to keep him warm, and loved; now it is nothing more than a scrap of fabric he tries to cover his naked body with.

He cannot forgive anymore, and he won't be forgiven for it.

Deanna won't look at him, and sleep is the key to a kingdom he has no right to inherit, a crown that is made only of thistle and leaves and blood-wine: it is not for him.

But somehow, sleep _is_ made of him, so much so that it is inescapable, it is the colour blue, it is water that drowns him.

And always, it is the same dream.

He wakes in a shallow pool of water, at the edge of a lake, rising as though he has been resurrected. There is water leaking from his skin. Clothes that he has never worn before cling to him like a thick layer of scum, they are heavy, and sodden, and they drag him back into the water. Everything smells of salt.

Somehow, there is never any in his eyes, and he opens them always to look up into the sky, free of clouds and also of the sun. Even though it is light, there is never any sun.

He breathes in, and he is breathing in water.

And then suddenly, the scene will invariably change, and he is walking like a man possessed, with no clear idea of how on Earth he was pulled to his feet. He walks for miles and miles until only 5 seconds have passed, and there is a real ache in his feet. Still, there are beads of water that mix with sweat, and they leak, it seems, from his very pores.

He is a man made of water.

And then, the sky and the land become one, and all it's connotations are the same where he comes upon a cabin circled by one screeching crow, in the centre of an empty and vast field of heather. Long stalks of grass get caught in his fingertips, his arms, his eyelashes as he runs to it, sprinting, taken by the sudden desperate need to get in.

But the place never has any doors, or windows that he can see, and he finds himself running laps around it, listening to the abject silence that emanates from within. Something inside him is certain that she will be there, if he can just get to her. After so many more millenia, and he might as well be old and grey for all the seconds that have passed by, he finally comes upon a window, high above him and glowing like it holds the secret he wants.

Hands appear in front of his face, and he is scrambling to scale the wall and kick his legs out to shatter the glass. Despite how drenched he always is, it is never a difficult window to break.

And then, suddenly, he is within the cabin staring at her, stood in a pool of water that still leaks from him, and she has her back turned, unaware. There is firelight glaring off of all the walls, and somehow all the windows he couldn't see before, all the doors appear again - the place he came in from gone.

Outside, there are four crows in a row on the windowsill, preening the feathers of the one in front.

She turns to him, her eyes bright purple and howling, her face completely expressionless. And he tries to walk closer to her, but that would be too much like swimming, for all the water he continues to drip has formed an ocean under his own two feet.

Another jump in fantasy, and they are sitting across from one another at the dining table, and a window takes up the entire of his right side - outside it is black, the world he left behind now gone. She opens her mouth like a rattlesnake unhinging its jaw, and moths fly out, calamitous.

And everytime she says the same thing, her voice burning from the walls, her mouth silent.

 _Tell them I was the warmest place you knew._

An arctic wind freezes the water that leaves his eyes.

 _Tell them you made me cold_.

Moths make it impossible to see her face, and somehow, it does not sound like her voice at all, distorted by the crackling of a flame he cannot see. Then the wind is gone, and the insects like dust fall away with it, until all that is left is the water. Always the water.

He looks into her eyes, but she is unfocused, and barely looking back at all, because there is water slowly bleeding into the room, through all the sealed fixtures. It rises up from beneath the floorboards, and seeps through the wooden skirting of the room, the cupboard handles, the wall paneling. A tidal wave breaks in through the chimney breast.

Suddenly, she is bleeding water too.

It is impossible to see anything other than water.

And then, she is in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and there is water running over her hair when he carries her to a bed that wasn't there before. Never anything other than a bed that will only fit one body, and so each night they stack on top one another, his knee holding her legs slightly apart for him. He never has to look to know she's naked.

No matter how he tries to hold back, he always seems to push too far, to push himself on her, in her, and they do something that he feels is only ever one word away from _making love_. But it is always too frantic, too silent, too _desperate_ to be anything other than an animal in him he cannot ever control. They spend the nights drowning each other.

And when he wakes up, another few seconds later, he is underwater again, staring through wide open eyes at the blue sky above him, and the seven crows that caw overhead.

He stands, and repeats the whole thing again.

That is, until he wakes for real, soaked in a cold sweat in a bed he shares with somebody who is not her, a bed that he has never slept in before.

He blinks the fantasy away.

There are limbs this night, tangled all in his own, and he is flanked on either side by a woman, though he daren't turn his head to see who they are. He is heaving in breaths of oxygen that taste too much like salt water spray, and his body is difficult to hold down to the mattress without leaping up and running from them all. Recollection rushes back to him, and he knows who they are and how he ended up here, how he had roared in ecstacy, in a release he's had already for 3 nights before and will continue until he can't take it anymore.

He had been so sure they could fix him, so sure they would be the ones.

Of course, they are not.

And he hates Deanna for having turned him into this.

He hates her because she made him better.

A part of him might hesitate to call this _therapy_ , all this sleeping around, but at some point, people begin to expect it of him, and at least he is not drinking, or doping up, just for the feeling of anger he cannot suppress.

Sure, he is a little rough at times, but there are individuals, whole species in fact, who thrive on his kind of love, who seek it out. He is usually more than happy to oblige.

He sneaks his limbs away from theirs, resurrects himself like a messiah, and stands on legs that feel alien without water to hold him up.

Their bed was much colder somehow than the air he finds himself swaddled by now, and he walks away like it is just another conquest - and it is. The late night memory of a wager he took years ago flashes through his mind, and the daring face of the federation ambassador he took it from, floats without tether. He'd already slept with the man's own daughter anyway, so what of a dead man's?

Will ends up fumbling for his uniform in the darkness, moving with a silence he has acquired through meetings like this. Back then, they had called Deanna the ice queen, called her _unloveable_. He'd laughed along, thinking it was all a joke, and he took the bet like an overzealous young child, thinking he deserved any woman he came upon.

He had thought himself irresistible.

His uniform clings to the sweat on his skin, in the same way blood used to cling to his knuckles in any number of fights he had in bars across the galaxy. Nobody would fight him on Betazed. Deanna punched him once, when he'd known her for five minutes and tried to grab her ass; she had skin softer than a peach, and a fist small like the point of a knife. He had bruised purple and black.

He struggles to find his socks out in the living area, they are black and hiding amongst the shadows. He finds himself patting against the floor for them, and it reminds him of how all that latinum had been scattered over the rug in his quarters, the federation credits still lingering for weeks after she had torn through like a hurricane. He had never meant for her to find out.

The socks are stuck in a sofa cushion, and he finds them like they are sweet relief, crouching down to get them on his feet without falling over and breaking all this silence in two. Loving _her_ had been silent, and blind, she would never have to had said a word to him and he could have fallen in love with her. It was never what she said, it was how she was - _is_.

Something too much like a lead weight pulls his heart down into the boots he's strapping onto his feet, and even the memory of her is not smiling at him anymore.

A sleeping voice murmurs from behind him.

"Your absence won't break her, William,"

One of the women tells him, and she is his age, taller, thinner, more muscular. She is not a soft woman, nor is she human. She is the antithesis of Deanna - her wife too. Her fingers dig nails into his neck.

"She's too good a women to deserve _you_ ,"

Somehow, her words are venom, and truthful to their core; what they had was now just a mutual release, another of his casual encounters.

He doesn't even know her name.

"What in Shaman's name are you doing with us?"

Will stands, and everybody seems to be irritatingly wise, and he is just a dumb child missing his best friend.

He turns around, but there is nobody there, not even the ghost of a woman's scent. He shakes his head, blinks his eyes, screws his hands into fists that dig nails into his palms. There was never anybody there; the voice had been _hers,_ and yet not.

A growl, low and guttural leaves his throat, and he is kicking off his boots, unzipping his uniform with fury. His body takes him to the bedroom, mind shut off once more, and he has woken the women with his noise.

They look up at him, their eyes glinting suggestion, staring down now at his straining underwear.

"Again."

He demands of them, throwing himself down into the sheets, kicking off the last of his clothes and kissing harshly at the neck of one, while the other runs her nails along his bare back. They squeal delight, and there is no thought cohesive enough to tell himself _stop_.

He doesn't even think he want to.


	19. Neutral

Authors Note:

So I've been away a little while. Honestly, when I set out to get this whole thing published I just wasn't expecting for it to become something I would slack at. I love writing, I need it just so I can get all my words out, but I've been so busy these past few months with work that I haven't had any words to get out, and this has kind of fallen to the sidelines.

Not to fear however, 'tis the weekend, it's an ungodly hour over this side of the pond, I've only had one cup of tea today, and freshers week is close enough to taste.

Without further ado then, I present to you my words in all their fashionable lateness. Please drop me your thoughts after reading, constructive criticism is totally welcomed. I've been seeing the reviews come in and it's really keeping me from physically harming my walking trope of a boss. You guys are great!

* * *

Will is drumming his fingers against the tabletop, _whistling_ , and across from him there is a Klingon whose irritation is rising fast. Worf's eyes follow the pattern of his fingers, narrowing slightly at the point where he pauses, trying desperately to hold back the urge to crush all of those fingers in his fist.

For the minute, he is successful.

Picard seems not to mind so much, or maybe he just isn't paying much attention; his gaze is fixed on the briefing room doors, waiting for their last member to arrive.

Laforge is speaking with Data, both men seated beside the Security Chief, turned into each other and chattering in what might as well be a foreign language about the new systems, about optimising _something_.

There is a vacant seat beside Will, and next to that is Beverly, her eyebrows dipping her concern, but she says nothing to voice it, instead she is watching the same spot as the Captain, who is swinging the back of the seat on Will's other side, with an idle hand.

He misses a note of his tune, huffs a little, then goes to start the whole pattern over again - it takes only one sound of his starting again to rattle Worf into speaking.

"Commander,"

His voice is deep, and if he weren't being only slightly jestful then one might confuse his word as an _order_ , even when Will can only respond with mirth, in an annoyingly good mood.

"My apologies Mr Worf,"

And then, finally, the whole room is silent, even Geordie's chattering stopped by the anticipation slowly descending over them all. Still, the door is unmoving, and Picard wonders if maybe she was sleeping when he called for the meeting, or if she's being held up by a patient, an ensign in hysterics over their confusing human lover; he takes a brief glance down at the top of Will's head, an unwarranted wave of disgust temporarily grips him.

He tries to imagine the feel of horsehair and old paper, tries to put himself back in his ready room with the thought of her, where he was only a few hours ago, before eventually turning in for the night.

Maybe she overslept her alarm, maybe she is unwell; he tries to catch Beverly's eyes.

She too is fixated on the doors so much that she cannot feel his attention on her, so he looks back to them as well, everybody else with eyes only for the smooth metal tabletop.

A noise, and all eyes turn to Data, who has tried to clasp his hands in the way that Picard does against the surface, only too heavily and with little thought to their weight. His expression emulates apology, but suddenly it does not seem to matter.

Deanna is standing in the doorway, a blur in a cream dress, long sleeved and cinched slightly at the waist before flowing out into a skirt that trails the floor behind her a little. She moves very slowly, her hair falling about her shoulders in curls that obscure where she has pinned her comm badge against her chest; she does not appear to be _glowing_ , in fact she is rather more pale than usual, bags beneath her eyes.

Offering no explanation, she just smiles tightly at Picard then sweeps over to Data, who is beaming at her like a child, before taking up the seat at his side with great care. Will tries not to grumble, the place he had left for her now completely useless, not that he really believed she would sit there anyway - _of course_.

"Good Morning, Counselor,"

Picard greets her warmly, finally taking his own seat on Will's right, and fixing her with a concerned smile; she dips her head silently in response.

He turns in his chair to address the whole staff.

"Now, we've received new orders from Starfleet: in light of recent tensions between the Klingons and the Romulans, the Enterprises presence has been requested along the Neutral Zone."

Worf grunts slightly in response, already having gotten word from Qo'nos about proposed battle action, but he is the only one to really seem pleased with the news. Beverly, who has been staring at Deanna up until hearing this, turns to look up the table and frown, mirroring the same motion as Geordie.

"A course has already been set for the border, we should arrive in the next few days, as long as there are no serious concerns from the senior staff?"

He tries to catch everyone's attention, but at the bottom of the table is Deanna, eyes on the wall and hands over her middle, appearing to not even be in the room at all.

"Is battle action anticipated Sir?"

Worf asks eagerly, reflecting all the fire of a Klingon, and the good care of a Starfleet officer.

"I won't be able to get any more power to the shields than we have already, Engineering is only at 50% capacity after the refits,"

Laforge chips in before he can respond, and so Picard raises a hand against the speculation.

"Gentlemen slow down, this may be a little dangerous but it's not a war we're walking into, the Enterprise is being used to remind both sides of the power of the Federation, we are simply making a statement."

There is a little distaste in his diplomacy, but it's largely imperceptible.

"Captain, doesn't that seem a bit aggressive, are we sure it's the right move?"

"It might be in bad taste Commander, but the higher ups tell me it's getting to that point,"

Picard says to Will as though it is just the two of them on the bridge, and in much the same way, Data pipes up across from them.

"This may be true, Sir, reports from the neutral zone suggest that tensions are running high, a recent confrontation between a Klingon Cruiser and a Romulan Warbird led to serious casualties aboard the USS Tiberius after their attempted intervention."

"Correct Mr Data, we are to rendezvous with them first to offer assistance to their wounded."

Beverly turns in her chair,

"Wounded?"

"Yes Doctor, Sickbay will need to prepare a few away teams to aid aboard the Tiberius, fortunately there were no fatalities, but much of the medical staff themselves were injured in an explosion on deck."

She shakes her head at the mindlessness of it all, but quickly begins nodding her concesion regardless.

"I can have 3 teams ready to beam when you need them."

"Thank you Doctor, I'm sorry to have to ask the same of you Lieutenant Laforge, but their warp drive is currently offline, they're asking for a few extra hands getting everything up and running again."

Geordie huffs, but does not try to fight, everybody somehow making concessions for a war they are not even supposed to be fighting.

"I guess I can spare a few good guys from maintenance, but I'll want them back as soon as possible."

"Of course,"

The captain says smoothly, more than understanding how he is asking maybe too much of them for this, but it is an order after all, and though it may be a show of strength as opposed to a diplomatic solution, they are the flagship, and they have no choice.

"In the meantime,"

He stands from his seat, attempts to shift the mood,

"Lieutenants Hoang and Vashishtha are holding a naming ceremony this evening in Holodeck 3 for their baby daughter, and I believe Mr Riker here is being honoured as GodParent?"

Will sits up a little straighter in his seat, smiling his pride.

"That I am Sir, Hoang and I are old Academy buddies, I set him up with Priti a few years back and ever since he's owed me big time,"

He chuckles to himself,

"Besides, I'm great with babies!"

There is a hush across the table, deep and accidental, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he realises that everybody but Data has turned to see Deanna's reaction, seeing something has gone on between them, but she seems to register nothing but that same neutral stare.

"I'm sure you'll do a great job,"

Picard rallies against the sudden silence.

"Doctor, how are the crew doing?"

Beverly shakes her head of the worry, and turns bright eyes on him.

"All good in general, Captain, but I have received reports of insomnia and recurrent headaches amongst almost 30% of the crew, a few people have reported odd nightmares, but there's nothing there that's too unusual to treat."

"It could be a response to leaving dock again, so many people were able to take shore leave after all,"

He reasons, turning to face the other woman at the table.

"Any thoughts Counselor?"

All eyes once again are on her, expectantly, and beneath the table there is a movement of Data's prompting hand against her thigh. Her gaze jolts away from the wall, up at Data, then the Captain, a sharp breath escaping her.

"My-"

A beat.

"My staff have observed similar symptoms, yes,"

Deanna manages to say, her attention clearly divided, but her composure returning to her in timely fashion.

"Any particular insight into its cause?"

Picard prompts, hoping to be offered one of her deeply meditative and empathically led observations, but instead, she simply shakes her head slowly.

"It could be stress, I'm not sure,"

And she truly does sound so unsure that the others around the table turn to her sceptically - the thought that maybe she has nothing more to offer just a little bit more terrifying than the neutral zone.

"Well,"

He falters.

"Be sure to keep an eye out for any developments."

Beverly nods, but Deanna has turned to stare down at the table, and so he simply moves on.

She cannot hear very much more of what is said at all, can't even feel how the staff reacts to him, or who is speaking at any given time. Instead, she is fixated on this heartbeat that is drumming anew in her mind, frantically and so quietly that she really has to focus to know it is there. She remembers her mother speaking fondly of this, as though it was something mystical and enjoyed only by the most powerful Betazoid women, but something is telling her this is a curse, not a gift.

Her head feels very heavy, very tense, and the tea never did work, she has barely slept at all. And this might just be because her thoughts rage out of control when she is tired, or because the child is growing too fast for her body and everything aches like moving teeth. Her back cannot support the weight, her skin cannot stretch without stinging a terrible rash, her stomach has shrunk, her ribs moved aside slightly. She is not even as big as she will be, but she has _popped_ , so Beverly tells her, and instead of something sloping and easy to conceal, she has been left with a distinct bump, unmistakeable no matter what she wears.

The tension in her head builds, and she's sure there's somebody speaking to her.

"Counselor?"

Data is touching her left arm gently, and with his voice comes the curious gazes of the senior staff, distracted from their conversation on plasma conservation.

There a few drops of blood on the tabletop where her eyes are downcast, and suddenly she is dizzy, looking up at him where he calls to her again.

"Counselor, your nose is bleeding,"

Data tells her, and so she reaches towards her face and finds that it is slick with blood already, hot and slippery and deeply crimson, like wine, a stronger purple tone than a humans, but terribly red nonetheless.

Beverly does not react too dramatically, and it is Data that directs her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, offering her a tissue from _god knows where_.

"You shouldn't worry, this is perfectly normal for women during pregnancy,"

He tells her, and she tries to nod without focusing too heavily on the tension still behind her eyes, or the pressure that still rests on her hips.

"Perhaps you should go to your quarters, Deanna,"

Picards suggests, concerned, but taking his cue from Beverly who seems to be more inclined to allow Data to calm the girl, seeing as it is quite a phenomenon indeed, and she seems rather oddly at ease with him holding onto her. Beneath the table though, it is possible to see that the doctor is scanning with her tricorder, never anywhere without it.

Deanna moves to stand, nodding, and the android moves much faster than her to offer his hands for her to grasp onto, and so she does, much to the surprise of Will, that she has swallowed her pride, that it is not just him she is this comfortable with.

Data has a hand around one of hers, clasped and held out in front of him, and with a bewildered expression on his face, he leads her out of the briefing room.


	20. Data

"Perhaps it would be better to visit Sickbay?"

He suggests, hands holding tight to her upper arms as she tries to lower herself onto the sofa, her own smaller hands grasped around his sturdy, mechanical forearms. In this way he seems the furthest from a machine that he could, strong and caring - _concerned_ even.

Deanna groans into the cushions, trying to adjust the support behind her back.

"I'm sure it will pass soon, Data,"

She assures, not even totally certain herself, fingers moving back to pinch the bridge of her bleeding nose. He kneels in front of her and scrutinises her face; it is unnerving to say the least.

"It appears vasodilation caused by the hormone relaxin has resulted in the abruption of several small blood vessels in the derm…"

"Data,"

She cuts into his spiel before he can get very far, and the innocence returns to his face as he blinks in artifice, his mouth left open slightly as though he is startled.

"It's just a nosebleed."

Deanna reaches to pat the top of his hand, and so he stands upright once more and offers her another tissue, again produced from a place she cannot see.

"My apologies Counselor, can I get you anything?"

The tissue is quickly stained red, and she starts to wonder maybe if this really will pass, and her face is beginning to throb the pressure.

"Water would be nice please Data."

He nods immediately and leaves her to walk over to the replicator, machine commanding machine.

On the sofa Deanna continues to pinch her nose, breathing in deeply through her mouth hoping to calm herself some, all the different sensations of her body playing in her periphery. Still, there is a pressure on her hips, harsh and heavy, and her day had started with the damning realisation that she cannot keep replicating her science uniform in larger maternity sizes without looking so awful that her own body is too much to look at. Her dress is much softer in fabric, and it has room enough for her to expand some, as well as helping her maintain some sense of self, of individuality and control.

Data hands her a glass that is cool and filled only halfway to the top, then he perches himself on the edge of an armchair opposite her and watches intently at the hand holding her glass.

She drinks from it hesitantly, in slow sips, trying hard not to tip her head too far back as she knows that will not slow the bleeding, just alter its directionality; and that is entirely more concerning to imagine.

"I wonder if you might clarify something for me Counselor?"

He asks, eyes now focused tightly on her own.

"Of course."

Deanna shifts further back into the cushions, leaving her glass on the low table and repositioning the tissue against her nose.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, I have read something which I do not entirely understand, regarding a certain phenomenon on Betazed, I was hoping you could explain it to me?"

She nods him on with a slight tip of her head, and he pauses to construct the perfect query, something which will not need to be worded twice.

"There was a passage on a certain water dwelling creature that possess powers of telepathic manipulation, but there was nothing explaining how this ability is functional across species, or what the extent of these abilities are."

For a moment, she struggles to follow along with his words, knowing almost immediately what it is he's asking about, the memory of all the things they had shown her within herself, fresh inside her mind.

 _Will, and the woman who shares his bed, faces both alight in shock at the sight of her there, until the image is gone. Then, mountains upon mountains, a deep valley cleft in the middle, church pews, a human caskett, the rain on risa. Her dress, torn in two, fashioned into many grander garments than before. His words, weeks late at a computer terminal, a clouded sky, a voice displaced, rows upon rows of packed church pews and starfleet uniforms everywhere, the sound of New Orleans jazz. The beating heart of a child, a baby crying, her own rattle falling from the smallest hand, a slamming door._

 _A single drop of clear water in an ocean of blue_.

"I'm sorry Data,"

Finally, she undertakes to respond in the same tone of voice - no one could tell the difference.

"I have never heard of such a creature."

The man nods her back into awareness, oblivious, taken with her tone thinking she is telling him the truth. He has no reason to believe she lies to him.

If she were not so numb herself, she might feel bad for betraying his trust, because he is like a child who gives too easily, listens too keenly, and accepts all that is told him.

"Might I ask another question then, if you don't mind?"

Data asks her, and she hasn't the heart to tell him no, if only for his easy company.

"Of course,"

She says again.

He is like a statue where he sits.

"You and Commander Riker have 'broken up', correct?"

Deanna frowns at him, incapable of leaving the topic alone.

"Why do you ask?"

Her diversion is almost expert.

"I have observed a sudden lack of communication between the two of you, and his belongings are no longer in your quarters, I have also seen him leaving two separate female crew quarters since returning to the ship,"

He tells her like this is all very matter-of-fact, like it's an algorithm he has perfectly worked out, and though she is not surprised by this knowledge, it still takes her back to hear aloud.

Slowly, thoughtfully, she takes a sip of water and regards him from above the glass.

"We were not an item to begin with Data, he was just… helping me."

"And he is not anymore?"

The android asks her, and he is perhaps more difficult to hide herself from, because she cannot sense his emotions in the way she can with others. He makes her vulnerable, and in a twisted way, it is invigorating.

"No-"

She pauses, looks around the space and all the mess that is hers and hers alone - Will had been the one to start picking up after her when she couldn't anymore.

"Not anymore."

Data picks up on her sadness, and something Geordi told him once - about conversation, and women, and _feelings_ \- stops him from asking her much more. Her expression is a clear one that he has no trouble reading.

"I could take over in his role, if you need help,"

He offers, and she smiles softly, her sadness converted into grace.

Her eyes crinkle her gratitude.

"That is very kind Data, but I could not ask that of you."

Amber eyes shut over for longer than a blink, and then open up again like he had been in another world, _calculating_ ; he does a cursory sweep of their surroundings.

"Counselor, I do not mean to be impolite, but I believe your living area resembles what Lieutenant Laforge might refer to as a _pigsty_ ,"

Deanna has to snort back a laugh.

"I believe you _do_ require the help,"

He tells her with sympathy, and she has to stifle her giggle with the back of her hand, suddenly full of a feeling that is _something_ at least, more than her new customary emptiness.

She just shakes her head at him in jest, puts the glass back down on the table, and then readjusts her back against the sofa, making sure to wipe the blood from under her nose before it runs onto her lip. Data frowns a brief concern.

"How are you feeling?"

He asks, and he gestures a hand to her stomach, where it is so obvious out in front of her. It's subtle of him, and she wants to smile the pride of how he has grown in the image of what he desires so much, only her face cannot cooperate.

"I am fine now, thank you Data,"

Deanna replies, truly grateful for his concern, but his face does not register any change at all.

"And the child?"

He continues to press, and she pushes a customary hand over the topmost swell of her stomach, down to where it crests at her naval, then leaves it there resting in her lap.

" _Fine_ ,"

She repeats, and then a breath catches in her throat and her hand jumps back up to her naval, stolen for oxygen. She tries not to wince the ache.

"Kicking, actually,"

Deanna tells him, and now his face rises in his wonderment, a sheen of lubrication covering his eyes as though he is completely animated, and for a moment, he is terribly real.

"Fascinating."

She shifts upwards a little in her seat as she is kicked again, and the child starts more to squirm, pushing in on all of the tender flesh she is made up from; a cringe now escapes her.

"How does it feel?"

The man's eyes have widened considerably, and he is straining against the machine that he is to become more, he is striving to learn things that he maybe will never understand. Deanna is taken aback a little, because she has never once personally considered how it feels to have an independent, living creature move inside her, without just thinking of it as a _parasite_. This pregnancy has brought about a bitterness she had no idea she possessed, until it was too late to hold back; all she can hope to do now is hide it from the others, to protect them from herself.

"It is like -"

She huffs when it moves again, and shifts once more to lean more heavily on her right side. The tissue under her nose is becoming heavy with blood.

"Do you have internal sensors?"

Her tactic changes.

Data nods in response.

"Okay, so what would it feel like if you didn't disengage them during a maintenance session?"

Deanna asks him, and she is drawing on such limited knowledge of his systems; he seems to understand regardless.

"I imagine it would feel as though Geordi was using a micro-laser in my internal circuitry,"

He is missing the point.

"And that would be…?"

At her prompt, he frowns mechanically, and searches for a word.

"Uncomfortable."

He finishes, as though it is something, and he has found the meaning. Deanna nods to him, raises one finger to point in his direction, a wicked smile that means really nothing at all come upon her face.

"Exactly."

Then, there is some more silence, because he is filing away this information as though he hasn't been told much of anything, and she is swiping the tissue out from under her nose, now that it is becoming stiff and dried up. She frowns down at it in her hand, then drops it on the tabletop, another something she probably will never get around to tidying away.

Another few moments pass, and she finds herself fiddling with the pleat on her skirt, trying to lay it flat over an exposed portion of skin that has started to tingle the cold, the anticipation of when he will speak again.

"Counselor?"

Her head snaps up to regard him.

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

Data asks her, and she is shocked for the fear in his voice, that he would think such a thing.

"Absolutely not Data, why would you think that?"

He himself has not moved an inch since he sat down.

"Because of your telepathic abilities."

She frowns.

"I don't understand?"

And it is perhaps the truest thing she has said all day. He reformulates.

"I know that, as a Betazoid, your interpersonal skills rely heavily on the emotions of the individual, and so I wonder if maybe, because I do not have emotions, you feel uncomfortable in conversation with me,"

She shakes her head at him, before he can even finish his sentence, and a humour that is moreso one of disbelief encompasses her words.

"Data, no."

He tips his head again, confused, because this is not a reaction he would have expected: she is laughing softly, _strangely_.

"You're very easy to be around, you are comforting,"

"But I am not _real_ , not in any sense that you experience reality,"

Data counters, putting words in her mouth without realising it, and she continues to shake her head in response, just to reinforce how wrong he is in his view. She shifts in her seat again, to release the ribs that have become caught up by her stomach.

She takes a deep breath.

"Data,"

Deanna chides.

"You're one of the most real people I know,"

A beat.

"I have never once felt deceived by you, or taken advantage of, you are genuine and that is refreshing to see."

Another deep breath.

"You might not have emotions Data, but to say that I sense nothing from you would be a lie."

His eyes light up suddenly.

"There's something familiar about you, something which I feel only from you - you occupy a space in my mind that is comforting, and you should be proud of that Data, never question that you're _real_ , you are more real than I am,"

Deanna explains to him, emphatically, and somehow an emotion stronger than anything she has felt all day comes over her, a dreadful kind of love for him, like for a brother she has never before had. There is a tear threatening the corner of her eye, dangerously close to spilling over the edge.

He moves forward to pat her knee, to offer her something of comfort that he cannot understand.

"Thank you, that is relieving to know,"

Data expresses, but she is almost certain that there is something of shock, of pride and joy that surges in his circuits, whether he can recognise it as such or not. And she is not lying to him, because his skin is warmer than most, his eyes more expressive, his thoughtfulness is much more than a formula and certainly much more than most people possess. He's not perfect, never professes to be, and in her mind, this makes him the most perfect person she knows.


	21. Geordi

Authors Note:

So sorry for the delay in updating this one, I went straight from a levels to a 9-5 and the novelty has worn off _fast_. I'd planned to do a lot more writing in my gap year before Uni but here we are, so please enjoy reading and I hope to be adding a few more chapters over the next week.

As always, your reviews mean so much for me to read, if you could take a second to leave me your thoughts I'd be super grateful - you guys are sound.

* * *

There is a package outside her quarters, surely not for her to find until the morning, but she has been awake for so many hours without doing anything at all, that sleep continues to elude her. No amount of tea or hot chocolate can take away the energy that she can't get rid of, having spent the entire day holed up in her quarters, no appointments or bridge duty to save her from herself. Picard told her to take the day off, but what he really had meant to say was that he's terrified of her - a woman a bomb.

She is, at any given moment, feeling so much and changing so rapidly that she _terrifies_ him, truly, for the simple fact that she could just keel over and die, or spontaneously begin to bleed on briefing room tables - that is what this is really about.

Her nose stopped bleeding a few minutes after Data returned to duty, and since then, her day has been nothing but wasted.

There is a package outside her quarters, but it is not from her Captain, and it is not from Data, or anybody else she might suspect for that fact, and had she not decided to go for a walk around the ship to try and quiet the life within her, then she might not have found it all.

It takes too long to correctly guess who has left her such a thing, and she is stood dumbly in the corridor in that same cream dress, cleaned now of its patches of red, her hands holding up a large parcel that has been wrapped with considerable care. The paper is a deep shade of blue, and lumpy where the object beneath curves and dips, the whole thing soft and light in her grasp.

She carries it back into her quarters and sets it down on the desk, searching out a tag that is flipped over onto its blank side. The printed message there begins to stare back at her once she has righted it.

 _On the advice of a colleague: hope this helps - Geordi_

Fingers trace his words until they are almost swimming the tears in her eyes, and she has to swallow down the feeling of gratitude, that he has been _thinking_ of her, when he did not have to.

The bindings are easily unloosed, and all of a sudden she is looking down on a lump of patterned fabric, folded slightly to conform to some kind of shape, but upon release it seems to expand in a cascade of filling beads that it is stuffed with.

There is a small slip of paper with instructions printed on it, and yet she still has no idea what this thing actually is, reaching for the slip and reading it carefully.

 _Expanding body pillow - lay flat and allow approximately 30 seconds for expansion to full size._

She drops the paper to the floor along with the wrappings and a thousand other things that have been discarded there, and tries to bundle the thing into her arms without unfolding it too much.

It is only slightly difficult to navigate this new chaos of her quarters, picking through the data pads and old clothes until she reaches the bedroom, the pillow held aloft in her arms.

All in all, the loosely filled fabric stretches out to 6 foot long when she manages to lay it flat on her bed, where the sheets are strewn about with no clear sense of order, and she stands back to watch as it expands rapidly.

Her hands come to rest atop her stomach as she watches, the irony not lost on her at the rate the pillow grows in comparison to herself - things which at first were unassuming.

And at the height of 30 seconds, she finds herself looking down on a tightly packed, 6 foot long, silver and lilac body pillow.

It is a terribly endearing thing indeed.

To touch it is very soft, and surprisingly malleable when she presses her balled up fist down into it, watching as it slowly expands back to shape. She's heard many good things about these kinds of pillows from some of the patients she's worked with, those husbands who needed something to soothe their pregnant wives before they were driven crazy, or the engineering ensigns with terrible back ache from constantly crawling through conduits.

The bed dips slightly when she sits herself down, pulling her dress up and over her head to discard along with everything else on the floor, too warm anyway to want to be covered by much more than the blankets surrounding her. A hiss escapes her as she lowers herself down beside the pillow, her body groaning the shifting weight, and she pulls it in closer to her, laying on her side with one leg resting atop it.

She pulls the top of it around her head to form a sort of loop, bending its shape until it conforms against the curve of her spine, her belly even now held up by it's surprising support.

For only one moment in time she wonders if maybe Will were still here would he have suggested this? But the thought escapes her much more quickly than it came, and so she nuzzles down into the curve behind her head, pulling her own throw over herself to cover where she is exposed.

And somehow, her back does not ache so badly, her belly is not so heavy on all the muscles that animate her, and, _miraculously_ , the child is still.

Her eyes close like leaden weights, another midnight miracle, and she thinks this is something Geordi deserves much more than a _thank you_ for.


	22. Terror

At least now she is sleeping better, even if she cannot eliminate the need to recede within herself in silence, or to shy away from the company of anybody but a machine, then at least she can say she is sleeping.

Her quarters are dark, and too hot, and covered in un-recycled plates and bowls, as well as unfitting clothes and data pads: but at least, for the moment, _she is sleeping_.

That hollow place within her continues to swallow up her emotions, and she feels that just to continue moving forward might be to ask too much of herself, and yet somehow, day after day, there is a smile on her face, and an excuse at the root of her tongue.

The closer they come to the neutral zone, the less she is expected to keep up her appearance, though it has slipped quite considerably anyway. By the time they come to rendezvous with the Tiberius, her skin is pale, her face unmade, and her hair in a messy crown about her head - but, _at least_ , she is sleeping.

And Will is on one of the away teams, meaning the air on the bridge is so clean, so unsullied by his sulking tension that she can properly breathe beside the Captain, who is not so uneasy at her presence as she maybe thinks he should be, given how he has tried to hold her out at arms length. Yet somehow, she is still permitted her bridge duty, maybe because he feels she has something to offer still, and she is glad that he can see that in her, even when she sometimes cannot see it in herself.

On the viewscreen before them, the Tiberius hangs limply in space, one half of it's lower decks held up by scaffold and burnt conduits, a symbol of a war that the Federation hopes to avoid. There is nothing much more to do than stare forward at this image, and track the motions of each blip amongst the stars, of those distant ships that continue to patrol along the neutral zone, both Klingon and Federation operated.

But there is something distracting her from this view, and it is not the way her stomach jumps rhythmically as the child hiccups within her, or the rising feelings of tension among the staff, or even the apprehension of Worf behind her, but something that is far beyond the stars and the millions of miles of empty space. It is, at first, a simple passing thought, as though these few days they have spent travelling here have culminated in this certain feeling she cannot name, but as the minutes turn into hours on deck, it is becoming more than a tingle at the back of her teeth, something which she cannot continue to ignore.

"Captain I -"

Deanna begins, with no real plan in her head as to what more to say; he turns to her immediately, a pair of concerned eyes that had been focused before on a data pad in his lap.

Their eyes lock for a few moments of confused silence, but this serves only to worry him further.

"Counselor, is something wrong?"

Picard prompts her, and from the helm an ensign turns slightly in his seat, a sense of curiosity emanating from him with morbidity; she cannot concentrate.

"I'm not sure,"

Her gaze turns instead back to the view screen, the feeling builds in the back of her mouth - if only she could find the words.

"I think -"

She frowns, turns back to him, a long fingered hand raised now to gesture where she had been looking, the words now moulded into something more cohesive, something she can _explain_.

"Captain, there's someone out there,"

Deanna states, all taste of trepidation gone from her tongue, now that she is filled with a second hand emotion she can finally name, now that it is fear, and it has an origin that is gaining on them.

"A cloaked ship?"

Picard questions, glancing over his shoulder at where Worf begins to type more fervently at his panel, ears tuned finely to their conversation.

"No,"

A beat.

"Not a ship,"

One of her hands moves to smooth over the fabric at her stomach, to cradle the swell of her baby, unknowingly.

"A child,"

Hush descends over the bridge, and he has always tried to listen to what she has to say, to believe her when she tells him something which he cannot himself verify, but a child alone in space amongst all this - there is something of a stretch to the thinking.

"How can you be sure it's not one of the children aboard the Enterprise?"

He asks in the silence, and he knows immediately that it's not for him to question what she feels, yet here he is, second guessing her regardless.

"Because he is alone,"

She swallows thickly.

"And scared,"

There is that look in her eyes again, the one she had held at Farpoint, the one she had for the crew of the Tsiolkovsky, for Tasha; he knows now not to doubt it's strength.

"Mr Worf?"

He calls over his shoulder, and suddenly all the sounds of the bridge return to them, tapping and beeping and the deep thrumming of the warp core beneath them all.

"Captain, there is nothing on tactical or long range sensors to indicate any further vessels in the vicinity, I would have said -"

"I know, Lieutenant, I'm not making any accusations,"

Picard soothes, and from the helm, Data turns to face into the conversation.

"If I may, it is possible that the sensors are not detecting minor ionic fluctuations in subspace that may be caused by smaller, or sub-light crafts utilising cloaking technology. It is worth calibrating the sensors to detect such negligible fluctuations that may be indicative of a nearby craft, to determine the accuracy of Counselor Troi's suspicions,"

He suggests, and his gold eyes flash with something bright as he turns to speak with all of their attentions, finally resting his gaze on Deanna, with something which could be easily mistaken for _fondness_.

"I will make the adjustments,"

Worf responds without order, and for a few seconds, Data continues to watch Deanna, his mechanical eyes witnessing more of her than any of them can, calculating and cool in their assessment; the information is fed directly to her medical file, among a hundred other tasks he is in the middle of performing. In the silence, he wonders if Spot might benefit from more Taurine in his diet: an algorithm is written, a subroutine utilised, until the calculation is completed, and the whole process is ceased.

A proximity alarm begins to light up their panels, and Data turns back to the helm, focused on the information input beneath his fingers.

"Captain, there's a distortion just a few kilometres from our port bow,"

Worf says with some urgency, and from his station, the android responds.

"I am working on disabling it's cloaking device manually,"

Deanna turns to face the Captain again, the feeling now as strong as it has been, and in this state of suspension she finds herself tapping fingers against the top of her stomach.

He tries not to smile at this rare affection, knowing how she struggles to accept what grows of her.

Suddenly, the image on the viewscreen switches to an image of the section of space in question, and, in coordination with the beeping of Data's work, an object materialises in the distance, small and inscrutable.

"Magnify,"

Picard orders, standing to meet the image, hands already working to tug down at his uniform tunic.

"It appears to be an escape pod, Captain,"

Worf dictates, reading from his panel as the object grows before them, finally appearing as a small capsule, old and seemingly Klingon in design, though undoubtedly a relic of the old Empire.

"One occupant, approximately 4 years old, Klingon,"

He pauses a little to accommodate the refreshing information, trying not to allow his imagination to run away with him.

"Life signs appear stable Sir,"

He finishes, and Deanna wishes it were so easy to just stand beside the Captain and witness all this strangeness, but instead she remains in her seat, too unbalanced to really consider such a quick move.

"What are we waiting for Mr Worf, I need a transporter lock on that thing if we're going to bring it aboard,"

"But Captain, the security issues with bringing a hostile -"

Worf is silenced by Picards raised hand, and the man turns to face him at his console, looking down to where Troi sits in anxious silence.

"The boy is four years old - Counselor, are you sensing any _hostility_ from him?"

She shakes her head sadly.

"He is _terrified_ , Captain,"

Deanna states grimly, and so he turns his gaze expectantly on Worf, and there is less than a moment of indecision in the man.

"Very well,"

As the lieutenant works on his panel, Captain Picard does another turn to look back at the viewscreen, something about children and _war_ beneath his breath, but it is too little to catch before he is trying to force order back into his life once more.

"Beam the escape pod to transporter room 2 and then accompany Counselor Troi there,"

He falters for a moment,

"If you feel up to it, Deanna?"

She nods vigorously to him, relieved at last for something more to do than stew in her own feelings, though it is clear Worf is not too happy with this arrangement.

"You two are probably the best faces we can offer the boy,"

He says before the man can mount any kind of argument.

"See if you can find out what happened to him, maybe show him around the ship, just try and keep him occupied while I find out just what the hell happened here,"

The Captain moves deliberately into the centre floor of the bridge, his eyes narrowing as the capsule dematerialises before him, a terrible taste at the root of his tongue.

"I want to know what exactly has to happen for a _child_ to find himself alone in the middle of empty space."


	23. Friends

Authors Notes: So another apology for a late upload, with it being the holidays and all it's really slowed down at the office so I've been able to get the editing down on a couple of chapters. I'll spread them out for a bit of holiday suspense, just to chew down to the quick really before I disappear over the new year.

You guys know the drill, usual rules apply - all your reviews are super encouraging in my dreary little life so please do drop me a line if you like the chapter, heck even if you hate it I'm not really biased. Has that come off as desperate? Yes, yes it has, but I have no shame to speak of, so without further ado:

* * *

The capsule cracks open in a huff of sealant and steam, a build up of body heat released out into the transporter bay. She is leaning down over the lid, caskett like, but Worf is there at her back, a phaser in his hand and his other clasped over one of her shoulders to pull her back.

A jolt of fear strikes her, the fear of a young child who can know no better, regardless of race; she closes a fist around the weapon and points it at the floor.

From within the capsule, there is a sniffle, a very high pitched whine that follows, guttural yet terribly unpracticed. The boy springs up, in a motion that is not smooth, and the ridges of his forehead have clustered together in an expression of warning, a warrior in miniature.

Deanna watches how, in one instant, the boys face melts, and arms that had been in front of him in claws, soften into open palms shaking upwards at her and Worf.

" _Mother, father!"_

His voice is an ungainly shriek, and Worf turns to her as though to translate what the boy had said, but already she is moving towards the boy, too close for him to pull her away.

The infant clambers out and onto two short and unstable legs, barrelling that slim distance to throw his arms around her legs, hugging on to her tightly, head rested against the top of one of her thighs. Over her shoulder, Worf is grumbling lowly, his phaser holstered once again at his hip, feeling only a little uneasy at this display.

"He's half human,"

The mans says finally, the sound of the child's voice not sitting solidly at the pit of his stomach, and looking down upon the side of his face, it is possible to see another clutch of soft ridges against the bridge of his nose.

"Bajoran,"

Deanna clarifies, and pushes the boy by his shoulders to stand a little in front of her, and his small brown eyes dart between the two officers, a confident realisation dawning in him.

" _Father sent you_?"

He chirps hopefully, and over her shoulder she can feel the way Worf is watching her movements, tracing each of her words in the way that one who has never attempted to soothe a child does - hoping to learn something from her.

" _We are going to help him find you, yes,_ "

She tells him softly, the words feeling less harsh on her tongue than she remembers how they used to, hiding from her mother with the Klingon ambassador's daughter, speaking in tongues hoping not to be discovered. They were young, and she is so out of practice that it's fortunate the boy is only 4, but better he hear her voice than the clinical sound of the computers.

" _Does that make us friends?"_

His face has become confused again, but there is a charming innocence to him, so un-Klingon that he is terribly cute, stood in a tiny set of armour that seems on him to be only a dress-up game.

" _It does,_ "

A slight gasp of air huffs from her as she tries to crouch down and onto her knees in front of the boy, using her hands on his shoulders still to try to anchor her centre of gravity; Worf almost moves to her aid.

" _My name is Deanna, and this is Worf,"_

She points first to her own chest, then behind her where there is still a shadow man in silence, her hands now taken away from the boys shoulders, the other open palmed against the scenery.

" _This is the Enterprise, our ship,"_

The boy blinks his feelings of awe, but somehow his eyes have yet to leave her own face, and she can feel there is some recognition within him that is displaced, but not yet removed, and he has found in her something he draws comfort from.

" _I'm Ridoll,_ "

He says tentatively, craning a little to look up at where Worf stands over them both - _looming_.

" _I don't remember our house,"_

Ridoll adds with apology, but quickly enough, there is a peculiar smile rising on the man's face, and in a strange show of confidence, he is kneeling beside the Counselor to look him in the eye.

" _I am sure it is an honourable one,_ "

He tells him, in a voice that she has seldom heard him use, maybe even only once for the memory of Tasha, and it stirs that feeling she has inside her heart that warned her to become closed, to retreat, the darkness she cannot name.

Fear still reeks of the boy, but it has decreased so dramatically from the moment he exited the capsule, until Worf's words of encouragement, that she wonders who it is raising this boy to be so _different_ , to be a beautiful dichotomy of trust and shrewdness.

" _Why don't I take you to get something to eat, and you can tell me all about how you ended up in there,_ "

Deanna suggests, motioning to the escape pod still half open on the transporter pad; she feels a sense of panic rising in him and pushes a breeze of comfort into his mind, subtle and calm enough for a tired smile to come upon his face.

Ridoll nods for her, and Worf stands as though he is their chaperon still, helping when he sees how the Counselor struggles around her stomach to get to her feet. The mans hands are strangely soft, but they are gone just as soon as they had grasped her own with support, and instead a much smaller set of fingers are trying to wind their way through her own.

She looks down at the boys hand in hers, now that she is standing again on somewhat steady feet, and then back up at Worf, her words coming more easily to her when she does not have to think.

"I will be fine here Mr Worf, he's only four, I'm sure you will be much more useful on the bridge trying to find his father than you will be _babysitting_ ,"

Worf frowns, apprehensive, eyes narrowing slightly at Ridoll.

"He does appear harmless enough,"

In another strike of the unexpected, the large Klingon man is regarding the child with a look of humble subordination.

" _Will you take care of Deanna for me so that I can take us to your father?_ "

He asks as though he means it, terribly serious, one of his eyebrows quirked upwards ceremoniously. Ridoll nods his head enthusiastically, the wavy black hair that erupts from his crown already long enough to fly into the air with the movement.

"Please do not allow him to tire you out, Counselor, you look very pale,"

Worf returns very quickly to his serious self, regarding her with a softening look and a tip of his head, seeming almost to _care_.

Her heart squeezes tightly in her chest.

"I will take him to Beverly before we eat, just in case, I am sure she will issue me the same advice,"

He nods tightly, approvingly, then again to Ridoll at her side, before leaving the transporter room for the bridge, his frame disappearing fast behind the doors.

In the silence left behind, she looks down to meet Ridolls gaze, squeezing her hand a little around his before beginning a slow walk, enough that he follows along placidly, curiosity now starting to succeed in quashing his fear of being alone.

" _Well_ ,"

She starts, leading them to turn left at the open door.

" _How would you like to meet my friend Beverly?_ "

* * *

"Why doesn't he speak?"

Dr Crusher is regarding the boy with confusion, suspicion even, a tricorder in her hand scanning him up and down. He looks confused himself, a little sceptical of the technology directed towards him, and it may be that he has never been aboard a Starfleet vessel before.

"He speaks, you are just scaring him,"

Deanna admonishes, and for a moment she is not really herself at all, she's a new kind of protective when she has charge for a child. There is an ungainly weight of responsibility for the boy resting over her, in anticipation of his Klingon father.

" _Are you scared of the noise it makes?_ "

She turns to ask Ridoll, whose legs are swinging over the edge of the biobed he is sat on, chewing on his bottom lip and avoiding eye contact with the doctor.

" _She's human,_ "

He responds plainly, and a realisation dawns over Deanna.

"Is ensign Plath on duty today?"

A hand rests atop the boys leg reassuringly.

"Sloan?"

Beverly asks with confusion, shutting over the lip of the tricorder to silence it at last.

"Yes, she's in the fracture clinic for the day, why?"

"Could you-"

The counselor faces away from the boy for a second, lowering her voice ever so slightly, knowing even that he cannot understand without a translator on him.

"Do you think you could call her through,"

At Beverly's quizzical look, she turns back to Ridoll and clarifies.

"He's scared of humans,"

"Oh,"

A beat.

"Yes, of course,"

Beverly leaves the room briefly and out into main sickbay, and so the boy looks up towards her face with thanks, a smile gracing her for his comfort.

" _Don't worry_ ,"

She tells him, thinking of a dozen faces she'd least want to see in his position - Will's stuck right in the middle.

" _Humans scare me too,_ "

And it's a terribly true statement, something which she first noticed in her youth, having grown up on a world of Betazoids, the only human she ever loved was her father, and beyond that, the turbulence of untamed humans had always frightened her. Her mother had taught him how to shield himself from the telepaths, and in doing so, he was the most gentle human she knew, every other that she came into contact with always seemed so brutal in their emotion.

Ridoll meets her eyes, and she can tell that he is scared for a different reason, the son of a Klingon and a Bajoran, two races who had warred with Humans, and been abandoned by them all the same.

She tries not to think of how a relationship like that would work, having come from incompatibility herself.

A woman enters the room ahead of Beverly, her nose softened in the ridges of a Bajoran, but not so strong as to have been raised on the wartorn world. Deanna knows only that she is the daughter of a Human woman and a Bajoran man, who met at the beginning of the occupation of Bajor, having counseled her briefly following her Mother's death. She had felt lost, never having really known her father and at a disconnect with her halfling identity, knowing only the customs of a human world.

Deanna thinks this might be a problem, but at least she has the face.

At least she speaks the _language_.

Beverly must have said something to her, because there is nothing of fear to the woman at all, and she walks towards them with confidence, her mouth already working around words that are quickly translated for them.

" _I hear somebody in here needs a checkup_?"

Sloan asks sweetly, and Ridolls face all of a sudden lights up at the joy of hearing Bajoran, the tongue of his mother - Deanna can feel it within him.

And maybe if Worf had not been there, they would have been speaking Bajoran all along.

" _Do you know my mama?_ "

He asks, his voice a little softer when he speaks than before, and she has to concentrate hard on listening, having had very little exposure to Bajoran politics growing up, but understanding enough through her love of their art and literature.

The nurse looks over at her, a silent question in her expression.

Deanna nods slightly.

" _Yeah, yeah I do,_ "

Ensign Plath approaches the boy with a tricorder of her own, keeping it closed at her side and holding out one hand towards him in an old-world greeting she can barely recall. His own hand mirrors hers, smaller and less precise, but filled with a kind of joy.

" _She wants me to just make sure you're okay after your -_ "

Her voice is filled with trepidation, finally reaching his side and crouching in front of him.

" _Well, after you've been away for a little while_ ,"

Ridoll nods, saying nothing at all, but his acceptance of this statement is evident in the bouncing of his head, more enthusiastic than before.

Deanna spots her chance to step away, and finally to drop the Klingon, that no matter how her accent may alter it's pronunciation, it is still so difficult to sound as though you care when each vowel is replaced by deep, guttural sounds.

Bajoran is so like Betazoid after all.

" _I'll be right over here if you need me,_ "

She tells him, patting his shoulder, and his face takes a moment to register his wonder at how she has switched between two people. There is that recognition within him again as she walks away.

"I had no idea you were such a linguist,"

Beverly says as they meet in the doorway, impressed, her eyebrows raised.

"Not a linguist,"

She responds modestly.

"There were just a lot of children coming in and out of the embassy when I was growing up,"

Beverly raises an eyebrow.

"You had a _Klingon_ friend - on _Betazed_?"

Deanna shakes her head at the woman, smiling good-humouredly.

"Never underestimate my Mother's reach,"

A hush descends in the humour, and they both turn slightly to watch the interaction between Ridoll and Sloan, tentative and fledgling, but something sweet about how simple language alone can become a symbol of trust.

"You never explained why he's out here?"

The doctor asks, taking her elbow and walking the two of them across and into her office.

"We do not really know that yet, Worf returned to the bridge to help in locating the ship he came from,"

She moves to stand behind one of the chairs, resting her hands on the back and leaning down slightly; she frowns sadly.

"Or any traces of weapons fire and debris,"

Beverly nods, sharing in the sentiment, perching on the edge of the desk in front of her, so that they are only a few feet apart.

"And he hasn't any idea what happened?"

"I'm not sure,"

The counselor looks over her shoulder again to the boy.

"I think it is within him, but whether he chooses to tell me is another point,"

"He seems to have taken a liking to you though, but not to me?"

She is pretending to be hurt, but Deanna can see through to the confusion that is underlying, the curiosity that maybe is displaced.

"I think I remind him of his mother,"

She says finally, turning back to look Beverly in the eyes; she has started to sway her hips gently where she stands.

"But you're not Bajoran?"

"I know,"

Deanna takes a deep, steadying breath.

"I cannot explain it,"

Her face turns contemplative for a second, and one hand leaves the top of the chair to press the small of her back, without really thinking too hard about the motion.

Beverly, however, scrutinises every movement.

"Hey, are you feeling okay?"

"Mm?"

Troi looks up from her feet against the floor, concentrated on the rhythm of her swaying.

"You look a little pale,"

It's terribly clear that the Doctors concerns are always present, and she does not attempt to mask them even a little.

Deanna has to take a moment to think about what she's doing, unsure really herself of the purpose - there is a brief spasm in the muscles at her back, and finally she understands.

"My hips,"

"Oh?"

Beverly moves to reach for her tricorder, something of urgency unfounded in her.

"I'm fine, really,"

She is still rocking.

"It is just a little uncomfortable,"

She narrows her gaze at Beverly until the woman final relaxes against her equipment, learning at last that she cannot always control every situation.

Before she can say anything more, there is call from beyond the doorway.

"Counselor Troi?"

Beverly is only slightly perturbed that she wasn't called herself - in her own sickbay, _after all_.

Deanna moves immediately, and finds Ridoll standing beside where he was previously sat, a sweet smile sitting on his face contentedly.

"He's perfectly fine, he couldn't have been in that capsule for very long because he's showing no signs of malnourishment or dehydration,"

Ensign Plath explains, smiling down at the young boy.

"I'd say the only medicine he needs is _lunch_ ,"

From behind them, Beverly pipes up an argument.

"I can have one of my staff take him off your hands Deanna, if you're feeling tired?"

Sloan cringes slightly, bows an apology and then makes a quick escape before she gets in the way of their conversation, making that same hand signal to Ridoll as she leaves.

"Beverly,"

Deanna chides.

"How many times do I need to tell you - the boy is _four_ ,"

"I'm just worried, what if he wants to play a game?"

From her waist, the young boy tugs on her sleeve, and speaks something up at Deanna, whose face slowly registers mild shock.

" _I'll be good, I'm tired too!"_

He is somehow eager not to see her go anywhere, and with some slight understanding of Federation Standard, Beverly is making him nervous.

" _Should we get something to eat while we wait for your father to collect you?"_

Deanna asks him, holding on to his small hand, and he nods quickly back up at her.

"We will be in my office if you need anything Beverly, I will be able to look after him just fine until we locate his ship,"

Doctor Crusher is so close to protesting her decision, but there is some kind of expression on the little boys face that is daring her to try it, protective, almost, of the woman he has attached himself to without explanation.

So she simply concedes the point, nodding tiredly with that same look of exasperation she has for any number of patients who refuse to listen to their treatment program.

It is worse with Therapists - the _worst_ with Deanna.


	24. Big

Author's Note:

I forgot my password, yes I'm very embarrassed about that. Better late than never I guess (?). I'm uploading a few tonight to account for the horrific backlog, so please let me know what you think, reviews are greatly appreciated as always.

* * *

In the distance, far beyond the stars and subspace, there is a ship on fire.

There are men of calm hands trying to stem the flames, trying to rebuild the systems one by one, all the while fretting over a boy they cannot be sure is even alive, all of them cowering beneath a cloak that threatens to crack in two.

Captain Picard cannot know this, on the bridge of his ship, clean and scouring every inch of the universe for a father they cannot be sure is even alive.

"Sir,"

Worf, from behind his station, finally has something to report. The captain turns to face up at him.

"Long range sensors are picking up a series of faint carbon emissions at the edge of the Tli-Alpha system, it is possible they are of a distressed vessel, though I am receiving no indication otherwise that there is one in the area,"

Picard stands, pulling firmly on his uniform tunic, relieved at last that he can finally do something in this tedious search, to feel as though he has not dragged his crew to the neutral zone for war, and found an orphan already on the way.

"It may be hidden beneath a cloak, Mr Worf,"

He says, walking the ramp to reach the man's shoulder and follow the readings on his panel.

"What evidence do we have to suggest these emissions are not the same random fluctuations in subspace as the rest,"

Worf takes a second to swallow his feeling of inadequacy that he has provided them so many false positives before this one, but there is a confidence this time, and he acts without order.

"If I may Sir,"

His whole panel lights up in a sector graph of the area they discuss; he turns to the Captain, pointing to the numerous clouds of carbon matter surrounding an area that seems to be scrubbed clean almost, clear and defined boundaries at its edge where the emissions disappear abruptly.

It forms the rough outline of a sub-light cruiser.

"That appears to resemble a vessel to me,"

Picard smiles widely, nods to the Lieutenant his appreciation, and taps once on the bessel of the panel before moving swiftly back to his seat.

"Well then, what are we waiting for helm?"

He asks after a moment of familiar silence.

"Engage,"

In a terrible moment of blurred stars and hyperspace, the whole vessel is moving with such speed unmatched, and from the front of the bridge, an unassuming voice calls back.

"Maximum Warp Sir,"

Ensign Leong says, only a hint of uncertainty to her, and her small head is barely visible above the back of the chair; another somebody too young for space travel.

Picard wishes, not for the first time, that he could protect them all, that only the well-lived and 'of a certain age' individuals would be permitted to explore space, because no matter how safe they make it, there are never any guarantees.

Tasha knew that, Deanna probably knows it too, as does Ensign Leong - but these are thoughts that will not serve him well now.

So he stops - thinking - and looks around at all the bright lights, the starship dreams and the stars themselves, only just blurs as they move too quickly by them.

Commander Riker remains aboard the Tiberius, overseeing the repair teams and working under their Captain for the time being, and perhaps it is better that way, so certain they all are that the man would have something to say about Deanna's involvement here.

He stands, maybe too abruptly, but turns purposefully towards his ready room nonetheless.

"You have the bridge Mr Data, I expect to be informed the minute we have a confirmation on the status of that vessel, Klingon or not,"

Picard orders, and though he can't see with his back turned to them all, he can feel how the two men move in their respective positions, Worf nodding behind his panel, and Data standing fast from the secondary con panel, both of them speaking in unison.

"Aye Sir,"

* * *

" Do you know what makes people big ?"

A crayon playing between the fingers of his left hand, the boy looks up and across at her.

They are sat at the low sofa of her office, in front of that one large table that now is sprawling with large sheets of paper and loose, rolling logs of colour.

" Big? "

She responds, setting down her own crayon and turning her body out towards him, a curious smile growing of her face.

" What do you mean?"

They are still speaking in one of the generic Bajoran dialects, and she can't quite identify the province his mother must hail from.

" Father tells me I will grow and be tall like him and the man who worries about you,"

"Worf,"

Ridoll nods, but there is a crease of confusion made of his heavy brow.

" But I don't know how, "

" How what? "

Deanna's voice is soft and smooth, and perfectly counsellor like - it is a role she finds much comfort in.

" How will I get to be that big too?"

She finds herself taken aback for a moment, but there is a sincerity to the boy that is endearing.

" Ohh, "

Her breath drags out in some emphatic enthusiasm.

" You want to know what makes people big,"

Ridoll nods again, the crease gone from him, replaced now by a slight eager smile, and she wonders why this is a question that plays on his mind.

" Well ,"

She starts, not sure that she has words enough to describe this to him, not sure that she quite has the vocabulary to express it; they speak together like children.

Ridoll drops his crayon too, in anticipation.

" People grow bigger because- "

Her mind turns to Worf, how unfathomably gentle he is, the dedication and care he holds within himself something which is well-hidden, but there for those who are willing to see it.

" Because of their hearts."

The boy's face turns further upwards in awe, and he shuffles his small body even tighter in to her side, pushing himself onto the edges of all the cushions she has stacked behind her back.

" To be big, you have to have a big heart, "

A story begins to weave itself in her mind.

" What does that mean? "

Deanna moves to put an arm around his shoulders, tentatively, but he seems to enjoy her comfort.

" It means that sometimes, the people with the most in their hearts have to grow to be really big, so that there's room for all their love, "

" Like my father? "

She nods at him, but there is something creeping upon the boy.

" Why aren't you that big then? "

There is nothing that she can do but frown in response, turning in to her own mind for a moment, wondering if she is speaking to help him, or he is speaking to help her.

It is a very peculiar dynamic.

"Uhm, gods how do I -?"

She voices aloud, his curiosity grows.

" It's because I - well, I keep my love in my head, "

Will, and all the hard decisions she has had to make on behalf of her heart.

" Your head? "

" Yes, because I am a Betazoid, I can feel other people's love, but I feel it in my head instead of my heart, "

She tries her hardest to make some kind of sense, but it seems words have started to fail her more and more lately, to the point that no number of foreign languages are enough to express what she has started to fill her insides up with.

" Okay ,"

Ridoll responds, very suddenly void of all his previous curiosity, as though she had answered his question enough that he needs no more explanation. But there is that same familiarity that bubbles up under him, and he has started to dig his head into her side.

She winces, but he is so gentle that there is no way to justify telling him that he has hurt her, where her ribs are moving it seems by the moment.

Instead, she bends her body around the ache to rest her cheek against the top of his head, and a short, sharp and hot glow of sadness resounds in the boy, as though he wants her to be somebody else.

It is gone so quickly that comfort can only replace it, and his thoughts are so quiet that she cannot hear them even as a whisper, and he is falling so drastically from one extreme to another.

He is falling asleep.


	25. Fathers and Sons

The crackling of his comm-badge has him shaken from his stupor, even the cold tea in the bottom of his mug cannot tell him what he had been thinking of.

It is probably better that way.

"We are dropping out of warp sir,"

Data's voice fills the room, and he wonders when he had even had the presence of mind to acknowledge the message.

"Thank you Mr Data,"

He stands, fumbling against his chest and all the chirping sounds that ensue. Across from him, the zebra-fish does another round of its tank, pressing itself up into a rock in amongst all the pebbles.

Picard straightens himself out to the backdrop of this strange tranquillity.

Out on the bridge, yellow alert is lighting up the panels, and along the walkway that leads to Worf, the ambient LEDs are pulsing lightly. Data is moving to sit instead in the first officers seat, and the position seems to suit him.

Somewhere, in a cynical part of his mind, Picard thinks maybe it would be better to have the man as his first officer, at least he wouldn't have to worry about him screwing his way through the crew.

"What's our status Lieutenant Worf?"

The seat is not warm when he sits.

"Weapons and shields at maximum Sir, the vessel's coordinates remain unchanged,"

The Klingon responds, his voice only slightly marred by whatever trepidation he is feeling towards the situation, and perhaps they are fortunate to remain only at a yellow alert.

"Open a wide-band hailing frequency, see if we can't get them to lower their cloak voluntarily,"

Captain Picard suggests, craning slightly to speak over his shoulder, but not turning his body away from the viewscreen, where the stars have screeched to a halt around their ship, and they are facing into a series of smoke clouds, suspended in the vacuum.

"Hailing frequencies open,"

He nods to nobody in particular.

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise to any distressed vessels in the sector, do you require assistance?"

There is a deep hush as the message runs through, and he turns back to Worf once again, who shakes his head lightly.

"We are appealing for information regarding a young boy found not far from here, we have reason to believe he was ejected from a Klingon ship, if you can provide us any-"

His voice is cut off abruptly as the space in front of them morphs into the shape of a battle-cruiser, much older than those in current commision, and leaking flames and plasma fuel into all the clouds around it.

"We are being hailed Captain,"

Worf says with apprehension.

"On screen,"

Picard stands and makes his way to the centre of the bridge, tugging once again at the bottom of his tunic, an unfounded ball of nerves working tightly at his centre.

In one instant, there is a hive of activity on the viewscreen, the image slightly distorted by a bad connection, and the buzz of overtaxed systems almost louder than the single man crouched before a console.

He is not grotesque, but he is Klingon, wearing a peculiar expression, desperate almost, his face covered in soot and his hair falling from a knotted mass of woven locks atop his head.

"You found my boy?"

The man asks urgently, and Picard tries to hold on to his diplomacy, reign in his shock at the sight of a Klingon man in engineers overalls, hunched down and creased in worry.

"Excuse me, to whom am I speaking,"

And maybe he even sounds too brusque to himself.

"I am Ko'lek, I Captain this vessel, we come on a mission of mercy,"

"Mercy?"

The day continues to become stranger.

"My crew and I are ferrying the escaped prisoners of a Cardassian labour ship to a colony in this sector, we were caught in a skirmish with another Klingon vessel who would call me dishonourable,"

There is a certain lack of distaste in Ko'lek's voice, when he speaks of honour, and it is possible to notice that those individuals working on the consoles behind him are not the same as him.

"Your crew is not Klingon?"

Picard questions, but somehow he is not filled with suspicion.

"We are of many worlds, some are Bajoran, as is my wife and my _son_ ,"

It seems he is holding back a bite of impatience.

"Please, tell me, is he safe?"

"He is,"

The Captain cannot help but blurt, feeling that there is something sincere, something unusual but certainly not _hostile_ of the man - he wishes Deanna were at his side.

"We found him a few sectors from here in a cloaked escape pod, my Counsellor is Betazoid and she sensed him before we could collide, he is safe and well with her at the moment,"

A beaming smile of white, flashing teeth erupts on Ko'lek's face, and one of his large hands sweeps upwards to conceal it, the relief more than palpable amongst the joy.

"We can return him to your -"

"NO!"

The man's hands moves quickly away, the smile gone, and Picard tries hard not to be too stunned by this outburst. He seems to be quick to calm himself.

"He cannot be aboard when there is so much smoke, he is only young it will damage his lungs, his mother will never forgive me,"

Picard smiles softly at this, finding the Klingon to be a very _human_ kind of man.

"Is that why he was placed in an escape pod?"

"We had no choice, there were fires more than we could control, our engines were at critical,"

The smile leaves him.

"You thought you were going to die?"

Ko'lek nods solemnly, his eyes filled with terrible regret and downcast slightly in shame.

"Very well,"

Picard begins, his mind just now made up at the sight of a good man caught in a storm, no matter the preconceptions attached to his race.

"Unfortunately my engineering department is already aiding another vessel not far from here, and we cannot spare any more men, but our systems are capable of replicating the parts you may need, and I will ask my Chief Medical Officer to put together a team to see to your injured,"

Behind him, Worf does not seem too pleased about this, and even as a Klingon raised by humans, he finds the lack of fire in the new man to be distasteful, and he has to swallow it down harshly.

"And as for your Son, you can beam aboard to see him as soon as you wish, and you and I can discuss the nature of what it is you do out here, maybe we can be of aid in some way?"

Ko'lek animates upwards, his eyes glowing and grateful through the fog on the viewscreen, his voice all of a sudden less restrained than before, _booming_.

"I cannot thank you enough Captain, I had been so worried for him, my crew, the ship - just, thank you!"

It is a rare thing to witness: a grateful man who seems to have nothing to be grateful for, his ship old and rusting and falling to pieces around him. A less rare thing to witness: the love of a father for his child, that overcomes the flames, and the rust, and whatever else may be falling slowly down.

* * *

Worf, for not the first time this day, is standing at the back of someone he wishes to protect, with skin itching against the alloy of his phaser. Deanna had summoned a protective desire in him that was unprecedented, and had been as difficult to swallow down as Romulan Ale, but for the Captain, this desire is dutiful.

Chief O'brien even seems nervous, and he hadn't been on duty when the boy had been beamed in, now that it is much later in the afternoon that even another shift rotation has taken place, though not among the Command Staff.

He takes a moment to wonder how much longer he has to wait for dinner, given that lunch was so long ago; the thought leaves him very quickly.

"Energising,"

O'brien calls out over him, and the Captain turns around from where he stands a few feet in front of them both, nodding his acknowledgement. A familiar whirring noise fills up the room, and soon, there is a single figure materialising on the transporter pad.

It is a peculiar Klingon that travels alone.

Worf tenses in anticipation of the weapons alarm, but it never sounds, and he revises his view of the man, as a greater occurrence than one without lieutenants, to one without armament also.

"Captain Ko'lek?"

Picard reaches out a hand first, his palm flat and kind in offer of his friendship; and they have only really just met the man, less than 20 minutes ago, without even time to comm Deanna for the status of the child.

Worf huffs.

"Please, I consider myself no Captain aboard a ship such as this, simply Kol will suffice,"

They are fast shaking hands, and a wide smile is spreading itself across the man's face, uncharacteristic and disarming in its charm.

"Very well, how are the repairs going on your end?"

The Captain turns inwards to face back at the other two members of his staff, Ko'lek following widely at his side as he steps down from the transporter platform.

"My crew tells me they will take much less time now that we have your aid, I cannot begin to thank you enough,"

He tells them all, addressing, it seems, the whole room as they approach the door. It is surprising to watch how his tunic flows lightly when he walks, the fabric loose and soft where it hangs from him, and it is not an armour they might expect - not the costume his boy had been dressed in.

Picard waves away Worf at the transporter room doors, and nods in the opposite direction, off towards the bridge, signalling that he will be fine alone.

The security chief bristles, but he has seen enough of their interaction to be satisfied.

"You have a Klingon in your crew?"

Ko'lek notes once they are alone, walking at a slow pace down the winding paths of the ship.

"We do, he was orphaned as an infant and raised by a Human couple, so he might not be what you'd expect,"

Captain Picard explains in response, but the man is smiling as though he has found something amusing.

"I'm sure he must think the same of me,"

They pause at the engaged doors of a Turbolift.

"I was brought up in a farming colony in a system close to Bajor, when the occupation began we became a safe haven for those fleeing the Planet - that is how I met my wife,"

A sparkle comes about him when he speaks of her, and he tucks his hands into his pockets before continuing.

"I wasn't raised to be a _brute_ , Captain Picard, it is a terrible misconception that all Klingons are,"

The 'lift doors open suddenly, and Picard motions the man inside ahead of him, swallowing around a formality.

"I'm sure Mr Worf would agree with you, but that doesn't explain what you're doing in the middle of a war-zone,"

Ko'lek continues to smile fondly, still lingering on the memory of his wife, the excitement of seeing his son.

"I couldn't continue to watch life be brutalised, especially when I have bound myself by blood to it - I have to be a good example for the sake of my _son_ ,"

The lift stops, and Picard nods along his approval, settling his feet against the floor to steady himself again.

"My wife's name is Leilani, she is a spectacular woman who I often feel I do not deserve,"

They turn down into another corridor together, the whole place strangely quiet for the evening time.

"Are you married, Captain?"

Kol asks, walking just a step behind him and craning his head slightly to address him more directly than he had been. It gives Picard a pause, and his pace slows in his thought, but it is not sustained and quickly he has recovered his composure.

"Unfortunately not, but someday,"

He tells him, really hoping to mean it, even though he has been saying _someday_ for _too many_ days, and even he is getting tired of the sound of it.

"Ah, you must!"

The man pats him lightly on the shoulder, a small display of the nature of a Klingon, only rather more jovial than people may think, and minus the alcohol.

"Falling in love and building a family is the greatest achievement I have,"

He is beaming his pride for them, and the Captain can only nod once more, awe perhaps for a man who can balance the archetype of his genome with the desires of a simple world.

It is impressive to say the least.

They round a bend in the corridor, and suddenly, the space opens out into something much wider, with double doors flanking it's either side. Picard knows the section well, and the last time he had been here he found Deanna lost among her own feelings, drowning without oxygen. Desperately, he hopes not to be met with the same image.

He presses the door chime gently, smiling at Ko'lek to indicate they have reached his son, and also to fill the awkward moment of silence that waits for an answer. It's not what he might expect, given how she is usually one step ahead of a caller, the door usually opens just a second before he can press the chime.

Today though, he has to throw another glance at his guest, nervous, and then sidestep him a little to activate the panel on the wall.

"Compute, locate Counselor Troi,"

He orders.

"Counselor Troi is in her Office,"

The voice he has associated with her mother responds, crisply, and he steps back in-front of the doors with authority, trying not to appear too dithering to Ko'lek; he seems not to be phased in the least, eyes still lingering fondly over the memory of his wife and child.

"Computer, override door lock,"

This catches the Klingon's attention, and he seems to shift perhaps a little uneasily, further away from the Captains side so as not to become an intruder.

"Authorisation sequence: Picard - epsilon - 7 - 9 - 3,"

Dutifully, the computer responds with a series of clicks and beeps, a final puff of air as the hydraulics open the door in front of him. For longer than a moment, he is worried about what will await him inside.

Ko'lek comes to stand at his side again, when it is clear that Picard's face has creased itself into an expression that cannot make up its mind. He gazes within the space for himself, and surprise tries not to grip onto the man to tightly.

His boy sits within the low light, body small and redressed in a blue cotton shirt, tucked up tightly to a woman who, in a striking moment, he might mistake for his wife. She is, herself, _striking_ , and her body is reshaped in a way he recognises well, but had not expected at all of the situation; later, he will find time to laugh at the tactlessness of his boy.

"Counselor?"

Picard calls inwards at his side, and they have been motionless for less than a second, each surveying whatever of the situation is most important to them. It is admirable, he thinks, that they neither have rushed onward and inside, like the art making animals they are.

There is no response, and the Captain undertakes to enter her office, his guest tightly now at his side, both walking with a slight trepidation; Ko'lek hangs back as he moves passed the low table, taking a moment to survey the scribblings there.

"Counselor?"

Picard whispers again, coming ever closer to where she is slumped into the side of the sofa, her back held up by a mountain of cushions and her arm thrown with care around the young boy's shoulders. He had not even seen him until now, trusting Worf when he said that everything was _okay_ , knowing the man to be overprotective and certainly over-cautious even in the best of times.

She stirs a little, and for the minute, Ko'lek is distracted by the sleeping face of his son, and maintains that terrified distance of a parent still, wanting more than anything to not wake him.

"Deanna?"

He tries a third time, using now her name as though he is calling upon his friend, and not his crew-member, wishing it could be that way more often. A slow and dragging breath sucks itself into her lungs with urgency, and he touches where her leg folds into a bony knee beneath her dress, and she is tucked tightly into herself.

She groans the breath out, as though she wishes simply to fall back asleep for another 100 years, just to wipe away the fatigue that fills her up.

"Captain?"

Her voice is barely even a murmur, and if she didn't say it enough on any given day, then he wouldn't recognise the word at all, as she speaks into the end of the sofa where her face rests. And then, her eyes bulge open slightly, seeking past the Captain's head and over to the man who still lingers respectfully at his back. She tries immediately to straighten herself out for the guest, but her body refuses her efforts on account of Ridoll leaning heavily into her, and all the frozen muscles she is made up from. Deanna whimpers the strain, and it is an alarming sound to hear from her, distressed and in pain; the Captain leans further in, a hand on her knee still.

"Deanna, it's okay, calm down,"

He whispers to her, mindful of the boy still, and his fingers have begun to move gently up and down over her skin, a perhaps vain effort to keep her calm, as he instructs. It is cold somehow, just the pimpling surface of her skin and the downy peach fuzz that tickles slightly under his thumb, enough to provide some sensation that is distracting from how the child is trying to move to sit more awkwardly inside her.

"I am Ko'lek, and you saved my son's life,"

From behind Picard, the Klingon man speaks, a perfect recap of events, only she can feel the surge of true gratitude within him, and it is terribly clear that he is no stereotype of a warrior - he is just a father.

Deanna tries again to sit up, her eyes darting from Ko'leks to Picard's, then back into empty space in concentration of all her efforts, so self-conscious that they are watching how she has become _less than_ , how she is just now less capable than she has been. With another wince, one which tightens all her muscles and sends a sharp pain along the underside of her stomach, she is sitting more upright, and Ridoll has not been jostled so much as to wake.

Her arm remains around his shoulders protectively.

"I was just doing my job,"

She tells the boy's father, feeling overwhelmed by his level of gratitude, and even the way he smiles at her like a madman, as though he sees in her something that he has not yet told his mind, and so she cannot fathom it either. Their minds, his and his sons, are similar enough to be endearing in innocence, but different enough to set her on edge.

"You're Betazoid?"

Ko'lek asks her, still at a distance, somehow sensing her strange resistance.

She simply nods affirmative.

"Deanna Troi?"

He presses, and she nods again, more warily.

A wide smile suddenly spreads across his face, and he has made a connection she still cannot steal from him, but somehow, he shares a recognition that has no foundation.

"Lwaxana must be so proud of you,"

Picard's head snaps up from where he has been just watching her movements for further discomfort, and he turns incredulous eyes upon Ko'lek, but he is one waking moment away from chuckling at their expressions.

"You know my mother?"

She asks him, a hand travelling to her head as the room starts really to come alive before her, and she is woozy: a kind of hungry dizzy.

"I knew her, once,"

The man tells them vaguely, and then finds himself sticking out so much that he comes down to crouch at the level of the Captain, everybody low down to accommodate her.

"But _your_ reputation precedes you, as a daughter of the fifth house - you didn't tell me there was _royalty_ in your crew captain?"

He turns his expression more on Picard, who suddenly has become thoughtful, and maybe a little shocked at himself, having known on some logical level that she is something greater than them all, but choosing not to linger. Now, he lingers, and it is clear now that she is a terribly special kind of person, intelligent, independent and strong-willed. If he has never thought before of her as royalty, then it is because she didn't want him to.

Picard turns back to her with fresh eyes, regards her as if he is finally seeing her as a new person, seeing her complete but more broken than before, how she is small and hurting on a sofa in his starship: and he ought to have protected her.

Deanna sighs - he always comes back to _that_.

"I - I never thought to mention it,"

The Captain tries to respond, but it is not worth very much at all.

"There are stories across the galaxy about the Troi's, what their lineage means - you are a very special individual indeed,"

Ko'lek continues to address Deanna only, and a blush has risen in her cheeks at the flattery; she is proud of her heritage, but she has always been their weakest link, always been considered the end of their line - nothing _special_ at all.

"Your mother was told breeding with a human would never work, but the mythology says something very different,"

And how is it he seems to know more about her than she does?

Deanna wants to know more, and she is perhaps even a little eager, but something has come over the man now that is other, that is removed from stories and rhymes told to children on planets much further than his own.

Ridoll stirs at her side.

"You know what it means to me that you found my boy,"

His father says, knowing better than most how she does not need to be told how he feels, and there is just one split second of understanding between them, before her head it seems, is splitting open with joy. Fireworks go off behind her eyes.

" _Papa!_ "

Ridoll's eyes have flown open in the one moment he spotted his father, and he wriggles against her body to sit himself up straighter too, to grab his free hand out into an open palm; his other remains still against her stomach, pushing himself up.

The feeling is terribly sudden, and resounds something like ecstasy as Ko'lek rushes over to Picard's other side to kneel now infront of his son, a hand clasping the open palm in his own, desperately, as though it is a lifeline.

Bombs are exploding in her chest, and for a second, she has forgotten how to breathe. She has been so blank for so long, there has been no joy, and now she is so full up on the feeling that she could die this way, if she wished.

The reunited are tightly embracing now, and she has become dizzier, spinning on a world that is not her own; Picard's hand stops moving against her knee, and squeezes her attention instead.

"Counselor?"

And then, there are no fireworks, and no bombs, and every stray molecule of oxygen is hauled up into her lungs - stars are clouding her vision. Deanna finds herself nodding, despite whatever else may be happening in her head, and somehow this is worse than shared pain.

The pair beside her separate, but continue to clasp each others hands, and Ridoll continues to dig back into her side, his words Bajoran now, even for the presence of his father.

" _Papa I made a friend!_ "

He exclaims, and the Captain cannot understand, but finds himself wondering where this sudden energy has come from, as he was soundly asleep only moments ago.

" _Deanna!_ "

She finds herself jostled a little, as the boys grabby hands pat her side and tug on her arm to get her attention again, and so she turns her head in a wild swing that has her regarding him from beyond the fog she's been clouded behind.

There is a pain growing in her temples.

" _What did I say?_ "

Deanna asks him in jest, and an even greater beam makes itself of his smile, turning back to his father with glowing eyes.

" _That he would be here when I woke up_ ,"

Ko'lek is smiling widely too, and then looks into her eyes with that same measure of awe as he had spoken of the Troi's with, something deeper within him that is unfathomably amazed by her.

" _And I always keep my promises_ ,"

She tells them both, pointedly, and she's not entirely sure if that's the truth, but she tries her hardest to make it truthful that it must be, but for the empty promises she has found herself dishing out lately. It is a terribly hollow pursuit.

Picard turns from one face to another, listening only to how the comm badge translates what Deanna says, giving her the voice of her mother in such a jarring way, but not scrubbing over the two guests. He is hopelessly lost.

"Well,"

He starts, his sudden use of Federation Standard shocking the two who speak it, and Ridoll is simply watching his father for reaction.

"There's guest quarters available for you to stay in with your son, Kol, while your vessel is being repaired, maybe the two of you can get some sleep and a good meal,"

Deanna is intrigued by this, thinking they would simply leave, and having a feeling she knows where the Captain is going with this - but she is so tired.

"Really Captain Picard, that is too kind of you, I couldn't possibly -"

"For your son,"

The two regard each other, and it seems the decision had been made already, so Ko'lek just nods gratefully, his son's hand still clasped in his own like a lifeline. Then, Picard turns to Deanna, with some kind of expectation made up of him, and it is already late, nearly the end of their shift's, the evening they neither can physically see.

"I'm sure Counselor Troi can show you there, I believe her own quarters are in the same section,"

He offers on her behalf, and has not thought to check if she is okay, even though there are still small creatures of light exploding in her eyes, in front of her vision so that there is always something to distract her attention. Deanna can only nod, because three smiling faces are turned upon her expectantly, and she _always keeps her promises_.


	26. Dinner

" _But you must join us in a meal Counselor, as thanks_ ,"

And this is the third time on their journey that he has suggested it. She can only say _no thank you_ so many times. A tiny hand tugs at her own, and suddenly Ridoll is skipping his joy down the corridor, arms aloft in two hands that hold onto him with reasons of their own.

And how unusual, she thinks, that the two do not steam too quickly ahead for her to catch up - how _aware_ of them.

" _Please,_ "

The boy drags out, his voice a nasal wine. His true desire does not linger in his voice, but rather gleams like the beacon of a lighthouse in his mind.

" _We have already eaten together_ ,"

Deanna tells hims gently, and knows immediately that she has already sealed her own fate.

" _But_ _ **you**_ _didn't eat_ ,"

Ko'lek looks sidelong at her, just as she gestures them to turn right along a fork in the corridor, and his eyebrows are raised at her, his thoughts stuck at what is in her middle, rather than where he sees into her eyes.

As is her nature, she gives nothing away.

" _Well, that's because I was not hungry_ ,"

They come to a halt just a door before her own quarters, and the plate is marked _Guest_ , usually empty but for the occasional visitor, and the section is her's alone to be a safe haven: but not tonight.

Ridoll is pouting at her, and she senses a rising tidal wave of confused and forced emotion within him - he may be a well behaved child, but he is still a _child_. His father has spotted the signs also.

" _But I suppose I am hungry_ _ **now**_ ,"

The emotion diffuses quickly into nothing, and relief washes them both, a grateful smile meeting her from Ko'lek as she swipes the access codes into the door panel. It opens up as a standard double room, devoid of decoration, though the lights spring up to meet them immediately, and there is a larger dining area than she finds in her own.

Just as well.

Ridoll runs immediately from their hands and onto the sofa, his small legs kicking him up onto the cushions so that he is just a ball of youth and wonder in amongst so much grandeur. His father laughs.

" _Thank you Miss Troi_ ,"

But at least he does not insist on further grandeur.

" _Deanna, please_ ,"

She tells him, letting the doors shut behind her, and she has never before noticed how her name sounds out in Bajoran, how it somehow softer.

Ko'lek bows his head a little in acknowledgement, having already made his own instances to be called simple Kol, then shucks off the overcoat he wears, soot falling in a gentle rain about his feet. He does not notice it happen.

" _What did you feed him_?"

He asks her, watching as Ridoll buries his face into all the loose pillows, smelling how they are fresh and fragrant; he shakes his head at the antics.

" _Kava Juice and uttuberry crepes,_ "

The man frowns his question.

" _They're Betazoid, my mother would make them for me as a child_ ,"

Kol nods, and she is thinking about how this is only a small lie, that maybe her mother didn't _make_ them, but they were delicious nonetheless.

" _I shall make sure to try them_ ,"

He tells her sweetly, then turns around to fumble at the replicator control panel, not knowing how to make it work quite right. She can sense a hazy kind of recognition in the man, but there is also a loss, and so she sidles her body up beside him, grace in as much as she can maintain it.

" _Here_ ,"

Deanna replaces his fingers at the panel, and opens out the culinary selections for evening meals, then cycles down to Bajoran dishes, knowing he will not be wanting anything overtly Klingon. The selection is somewhat limited, given the strained relationship between the Federation and Bajor, but there are a few in her personal selection that she has programmed in herself from memories of childhood meals at the consulate.

If all else fails, they will turn to that.

Indecision does not find a home in him, however.

" _Hasperat!_ "

He exclaims, and from behind them Ridoll squeals a _yes_.

" _You have had it before, Deanna_?"

She nods, but then a rush of shock bubbles in his stomach.

" _Spicy food will be okay for you?_ "

Kol asks, gesturing down at her stomach, and she must be much larger than she thinks.

" _It will be fine, I am not due for -_ "

She stops abruptly, takes a jarring breath.

" _Well, a while at least_ ,"

It does not appear that he has noticed her sudden terror, and she feels the need to sit all of a sudden. There is pressure on her hips that is ungainly, and still there is the dizziness of turbulent emotions swamping her.

Kol is chuckling as he selects the meal and portion sizes, more adept at this part, and she takes the moment to fumble behind her for the top of a chair, moving deftly to sit heavily into it.

" _My wife often forgets also_ ,"

He tells her fondly as she situates herself, and it takes a few seconds for her mind to catch up.

" _She's pregnant?_ "

Keeping the incredulity from her voice is a task, but it also makes a few things much clearer to her now.

" _Yes - very_ ,"

There is a fond memory rising alongside a humour inside him. He turns with a single plate in his hands, large and piled high in Hasperat, all pre-rolled and spilling out the large leaves of moba.

" _Doll, dinner!_ "

Kol calls over to his son, and the nickname is endearing enough to put a warmed smile on Deanna face, as she reaches for one of the empty plates she is now being passed. He clambers onto the chair on the end of the table, to her right, and leaves the space at its head open so that she is sandwiched between the two.

The Klingon man moves to sit heavily also.

" _Thank you papa_ ,"

The boys manners are impeccable, and she understands why there are eating food that does not require cutler, when he reaches for one of the rolls with unrefined movements. Kol smiles broadly, then reaches behind him with a long arm to bring over a tray of glasses, more juice, passing them out accordingly.

" _I'm sorry if he's been too clingy with you_ ,"

He apologises, eyes softening.

" _But you look so much like his mother - and to be carrying a child too - I cannot blame the boy,_ "

Deanna smiles with him, understanding now the recognition that has been bothering her in him, letting it become something she no longer has to solve. Really, she ought to have been able to guess.

" _That's quite alright_ ,"

She turns to Ridoll and runs a hand over his hair as he bites around some Hasperat eagerly, then glances back up at his father, the two of them now a picture of something he misses desperately.

" _She's not with you is she_?"

She asks suddenly, drawing her hand back, worried.

" _No, absolutely not, she's at home with our friends resting, unfortunately it is not an easy task to complete with a four year old around, so I offered to bring him with me to make it easier on her_ ,"

Kol sighs sadly.

" _We were only supposed to be away for 2 weeks, just ferrying refugees, but there was a Cardassian prison vessel that had been sabotaged, and we had to do something_ ,"

She nods with him, feeling how the memory pains him, and she reaches out to pat his forearm on the tabletop before placing a single roll on her own plate as he moves to do the same.

" _She will understand, I'm sure_ ,"

Deanna offers, and he is somewhat soothed by this, thinking she has the monopoly of truth on motherhood.

" _What does your partner do_?"

Kol asks her, a brusque change of subject, then he takes a large bite from his Hasperat and listens respectfully for her answer. She still has not begun to eat, and a pit forms of emotion in her stomach to replace what is not there.

There is a split second, and she forced to decide - to tell the truth or to lie.

" _I don't have one_ ,"

Her honesty startles him into swallowing harshly.

" _An errant lover, perhaps_?"

Humour attempts to find a home in him, to lighten the conversation from the depths it attempts to descend into, but it is a terrible effort, and he can see in her face that she is trying to conceal how she feels from him.

And she betrays nothing at all.

" _Not exactly_ ,"

She tells him carefully, then her lips pull back at last over the edge of her hasperat, taking a bite that is small and cautious and thoughtful. Kol does the same, taking off half of his own in one fell swoop, hungrier than he will admit.

They both take the time for silence, to regard Ridoll separately but with similar concern, and suddenly, whatever is happening is very domestic.

" _I doubt you would believe me anyway_ ,"

Deanna says following a tight swallow, measuring the man in a second that tells her all she really needs to know - and maybe it will be enlightening, maybe it will open her up.

" _I find it hard to believe myself_ ,"

Sadness clouds her voice, and he swallows too, watching as his son reaches for another roll with joyful eyes and an appetitive soul, oblivious to the gravity of conversation going on around him.

Kol frowns suspiciously, narrowed eyes in that same good humour as before.

" _Correct me if I'm mistaken, Deanna Troi, but there is only one way that I know of to make a child, and it usually involves two_ ,"

Despite herself, she cannot help but smile coyly along with him, for a moment of stretched lips before she takes a sip of her juice, the heat that works its way beneath her tongue just now becoming too much.

Swallowing, she takes a moment to bite back whatever humour of her own she might have responded with once, and instead centres herself around the thought of a ball of light, and the blur her life has become since then.

" _It is perhaps not so simple for me_ ,"

A beat.

" _You are aware that the universe is made up of uncertainties, yes_?"

He nods, tries not to get lost in her eyes.

" _So it is feasible to say that anything is possible, even the things we might not believe to be?_ "

Again, the Klingon man nods, and there is an air to him that tells her she is safe to tell him these things, that he is not like all the other men who might have suggested termination, or experimentation, before him. A glint in him tells her that he knows more of the dominion of a woman than most people ever learn in a lifetime.

" _Okay, so imagine that I did not -_ "

Deanna pauses, eyes the ever-listening Ridoll warily, but the slurping sounds of him echoing in his glass as he drinks are enough to ensure he likely is not following conversation too closely.

" - _do any of the necessary bits_ ,"

Ko'lek's eyes draw together again, and one eyebrow breaks free in suggestion of the things she has not said.

" _I image this to be possible, yes_ ,"

He parrots, then takes the rest of his hasperat roll in his mouth, chewing pensively as he waits for her next move.

" _And so imagine then that one day I was not pregnant, and the next, I was,_ "

Ko'lek gulps.

" _What would that look like_?"

Deanna poses at last, and he gulps again, takes a swig of juice, intrigued by where this conversation has gone.

A beat.

" _Immaculate conception_?"

He asks her seriously, as though she is delving into something of mythology, and he might just not stop at the _house of Troi_.

A nod is all it takes to set his imagination alight, and his eyes widen beneath his heavy brow, awe inspired in the man to such a degree that he has forgotten all about the food that begins to cool in front of him.

She has no appetite to speak of anyway.

" _You're telling me that the child has no father, that it simply came to be_?"

" _Not exactly_ ,"

Deanna counters, a mirror to how she had begun this story, and maybe the main theme of it all, that really what has happened here is not comparable to anything that can possibly be imagined. Slowly, she reaches for another drink of juice, uses the time to eye up Ko'lek's unwavering concentration on her, thinking it strange that anyone should want to listen with such care to a stranger.

" _There was a being of light who did this to me, late at night a few weeks ago_ ,"

Shock registers.

" _Weeks!_ "

Kol bellows, loud enough to startle the table for a second, but he is quick to check himself, and Ridoll has not been distracted enough from chewing on the end of a large salad leaf he has artfully extracted from his wrap.

" _No, that is not possible_ ,"

He says now more reserved, incredulous and gripping the edge of the table with a fist that grounds him in his emotion, and does not allow him to fly into anger, or raucous conversation that is not demonstrative of the kind of man he prides himself on being. Deanna notes this, shifting uncomfortably in her seat to face into him more than craning her neck, and her back begins to throb more keenly than before, the child reacting to the spice by digging her repeatedly in the ribs.

She breathes deeply to force away the pain, to try to reclaim some space for her diaphragm to expand and satisfy the way her lungs burn for more air than they are given.

Ko'lek notes this too.

" _But if we assume that the universe can cause anything to be possible, then I suppose I can accept the premise, but the practicality -_ "

He forces a grimace to his face.

" _I'm sure my wife would have something to say on that_ ,"

His eyes have landed to scan the swell of her stomach, and she can feel it too, that this is something that would be too difficult to imagine if it were not in front of him, and for her too, perhaps, had it not already happened.

" _I know, I have grown very large very quickly_ ,"

Deanna says on his behalf, saving him the embarrassment of having to point it out, and her two hands come down to pat the top of her bump, maybe not lovingly, but certainly with the derision her words had possessed. The hands make a thumping sound against her skin, and it is late into the evening already, her stomach is becoming harder as it does in the nighttime.

" _And you were chosen - by this being_?"

Kol presses, and she can move from her stomach to grab her glass in both hands now, taking a larger drink than before to satisfy whatever odd need for it's flavour has grown suddenly in her.

A swallow, and she has never had a good enough answer to this question.

" _I_ -"

She stutters.

Pain is evident now in her tone.

" _I do not know_ ,"

Bravery all of a sudden becomes her, as though he might know a way to help her.

" _I am sure only that_ _ **I**_ _was not given a choice,_ "

Deanna tells him, and her words are sombre, truthful, a silent wonder behind them that she has come even this far.

The man shuts his eyes for a second, and shakes his head as though the universe has come up with one possibility that he wishes he did not have to accept, and yet the soft brutality of it all is perhaps the one constant he has seen in all his years travelling it.

Somehow, after all this time, it seems even to him that all women will never be given a choice, all of the time.

Kol opens his eyes again, and the world still has not changed.

" _This is not a blessed event, Deanna Troi_ ,"

He says, his belly now full and heavy.

" _I'm sorry this is not easy for you, and that you believe you're alone, but I wonder if I might ask you something?_ "

She nods.

" _Do you know the meaning of your name_?"

Inside her mind, a story begins to tell itself, the story of a woman and a myth all the same, of fact and fanatical fiction.

Her name, as it was intended, means mercy.

Just Mercy.

She was named for a Goddess, maybe similar to the Greek Nemesis, but less obscure, whose mythology makes her a woman who strips away the pain of battle.

Back in the days when unrefined Betazed broiled up in War, hot and internal.

She was supposedly the first telepath, her powers immaculate, a _coup de grace_ , something inherited beyond her line long after the reality of her life had been lost.

She was possessed of Beauty, fathered by an alien, they wrote, her eyes were starkly purple in a world of black. And in her eyes, well there was her namesake, her _mercy_ , the secondary universe caught in a loop in time; one look was powerful enough to fell an entire army, have them begging on their knees.

Begging for _her_.

Really, she was no mercy at all, but she inspired the desire for it, and she ended so many wars that otherwise would have ended in bloodshed, before disappearing from record.

And so, Deanna had been named for her, named for Mercy - not so that the God's may have it on her halfling soul, but so that others may benefit from her own, so that she may be _begged_ for. She had been named for her line, for the generation, for the parallels in their existence, for whatever else of fire, fury and _mercy_ she may be full of.

She is called Mercy, and she is a woman of black eyes and good breeding, of powers that grow in as much as the powers that remain hidden: the blessings of her namesake.

" _Deanna_?"

Kol prompts her, and she has been thinking for longer than she knows; Ridoll watches the interaction between the two of them, his eyes now full and drooping the fatigue of being so.

" _Mercy, my name means mercy_ ,"

She tells him, a word that in and of itself means more than a name or a place or even an event in history. There is not time enough to speak of it all.

" _Yes_ ,"

The man hums, contemplatively, rubs a hand under the plaited beard that hangs from his chin.

" _And maybe this is your chance to show it_?"

Deanna shakes her head, she does not understand.

" _Show mercy to what grows of you - love in spite of origin - this is what I tell my son_ ,"

He reaches a long arm across the table, and Ridoll reaches back instinctively to clasp his fist around two of his father's huge fingers, the two of them charmingly in love.

Deanna is still - as though she cannot help it - shaking her head.

" _It is not that simple_ ,"

And she knew she would come back to this, that nothing is ever going to be _simple_.


	27. Awake

All night she cannot sleep, for the restlessness of a Klingon. It has not been this bad since she first joined the crew, and had been unable to adjust to the close sleeping quarters. She had been fortunate how accommodating Captain Picard was to her, though maybe that was just in the wake of her performance at Farpoint; there is embarrassment still to the memory.

Even Worf had not been this bad.

Ko'lek checks on his son for the third time before 02:00 hours, and she finds herself groaning audibly into the silence at how this pulls her attention again, how his level of fear and care wrap neatly into paternity, unsupervised and yet always present.

He fusses over the bedding, the buttons on Ridoll's pajamas and how high up his neck they travel - the temperature of the room.

It is as though he is trying to perfect some specific conditions, but the boy has not woken once, and his concern is unfounded in any sound reason. And maybe if she were there, she could tell him this.

Deanna tries to roll over, swapping her left leg for her right to tuck the pillow up between them anew, the whole process a chore of moving a body that will not be moved.

She sighs, remembers how their dinner had ended, how the man had told her about his wife and his home, his _mission_ , the religion he follows, how he had slowly worked his way through the rest of his dinner, and frowned as she did not. Explaining to him that the baby left her little room left in her stomach for food was unnecessary, and even though he had heard it before, somehow he did not believe it of _her_ , his perception bordering on the irritating.

Then, Ridoll's small head had begun to loll a little on his shoulders, and the boy asked for a _story_ , said he was _too tired_ to sit with them anymore. Deanna had shown them where to replicate bed-clothes, helped them pick out the right size and to find their favourite fairy tale from the data-banks, an uncontested Andorian folk story about the child had of a sun and a moon. She had been read it too as a child, only once or twice, but the moral lingers, one that warns people to be accepting of individuality, because those who do not fit in may one day possess something that the others need.

Deanna had felt like the child, as Ridoll probably does too: different from all the others, yet capable of adapting to both the day and the night, and shining just as brightly in both. At the time, it had helped.

The boy had wanted her to read it to him, but that was where Kol had gently put his foot down, seeing how she too was yawning and pale, and so she said goodnight with grace, and he saw her to the door with words that she can scarcely remember.

Now, she is here, and she has been for a while, unable to decide between a soothing bath that she may not be able to maneuver herself out of, or a shower that she will have to stand upright in, and so she had chosen neither and simply climbed into her bed, swaddling herself in the sheets.

Those sheets are almost on the floor after hours of tossing and turning, and just one of broken sleep that had immediately followed her finding a comfortable position. Quickly, she has learned that wasting comfort on waking thoughts will earn her nothing, and now she sees this to be evident in how she moves to reposition along the pillow again, lifting her stomach to scratch the skin and extend her torso out to try to give her diaphragm more room to expand.

She takes a deep breath, but it not enough.

Kol returns to his own bed, she feels the comfort in him as he settles himself down, tries not to steal it and make it her own, if only to see if that will work. She tries expanding her mind, reasoning that maybe she can drown him out if she fills her senses with enough people who are peaceful and sleeping, maybe she can turn them into a sea that will carry her away too.

First, she finds Picard, whose quarters are the closest in proximity to her own, given how he is not situated in normal crew quarters either, but in a forward portal in the decks above her, with a view so brilliant of the stars that seeing just the once is enough to have it cemented in her memory.

He is sleeping, thankfully, but all of a sudden, she exhales harshly that breath she had been holding in, and remembers a time when he painfully had not been.

 _Madness has her grabbing her head in anguish._

 _Her quarters are unyielding to her attempts at shutting them off from him and his restlessness; she stands abruptly from the bed._

 _She is alone, she can see in the space, but he is so loud in her mind that he could be in the next room. A groan escapes her._

 _Pushing the hair back from her temples with wriggling fingers, she exerts a kind of pressure that turns her into a melting pot of animalistic and ostensibly_ _ **human**_ _emotion. Her mother had warned her, after all, and she had refused to listen._

 _The floor is suddenly cold beneath her bare feet, out in the main room of her quarters, and her cream coloured shift has her looking younger than she thinks. The loose tie of her robe trails the floor as the doors shut behind her._

 _Midnight has swallowed all the crewmen from the corridors, though with the pain in her head she doubts very much she would care if anybody sees her like this, stuck in the pulsing glow of the wall panels. The carpeted deck is much softer between her toes, and in the 6 months that she has been aboard, it shocks her that she has only just noticed this now._

 _It is much colder in the turbolift._

 _A fist comes balled up to rub at her eyes, where they are puffy and bruised and tired, all pale and free of the light makeup she had been wearing in the day._

 _On her way along the corridor she passes a young man in a robe of deep crimson hanging over his bare chest. He nods respectfully to her in silence, hands cradling tightly to the small newborn in his arms against the bare skin, and the ends of his beard are tickling at the babies head as it mewls softly._

 _She smiles for him, and then he is gone behind her._

 _When she comes upon the golden door plaque, she finds that she does not hesitate._

 _Shock fills the man within, then his own sense of trepidation, and she rings again._

 _This time, his answer is fast, and his build up of agitation deflates from him immediately._

" _Counselor Troi?"_

 _And she pushes inside without a word, strangely impolite of her, mistakable for anybody else for how different she looks now with her hair all the way down her back in wild curls, as opposed to up in that severe and elegant bun._

 _He turns his back to the closing door._

" _What's going on, is something wrong?"_

 _Picard's voice denotes urgency, and for all this thought she has expended in getting here, she is suddenly at a loss for words._

" _Counselor, are you crying?"_

 _A hand draws up to swipe beneath her eyes, and he walks closer to squint at where she stands like an island in the middle of his living area, assessing how she has come to him in a certain state of disarray._

 _She had not even realised her face was wet, now it seems she can't stop the tears at all._

" _I cannot sleep, Sir,"_

 _She winces the continued restlessness inside him._

" _You are keeping me awake,"_

 _In a moment that seems she has had the air knocked out of her at this admittance, she sinks down onto the edge of his sofa, meeting his eyes with watery, endless orbs of obsidian and dark space._

 _They are different now than in the daytime, where the lights in his quarters are low and deep in shades of grey, gold and red. The lights in her space still are not right._

" _What?"_

 _His bluntness is an immediate regret, and he quickly ties his robe around his exposed chest before perching himself on the arm of the sofa across from her, squinting still through the dim distance between the two._

" _I don't understand?"_

 _He rephrases, and it is an easier thing to hear._

 _Deanna tugs at her dressing gown, taps fingers against her knee, then takes both hands to run again through her hair, unable to voice this feeling that there are ants crawling her skin, the feeling that she knows is within him too._

" _You are in pain, agitated, wide awake and exhausted at the same time,"_

 _She tells him, swallowing down on the feeling._

" _Something is driving you to madness and_ _ **I cannot sleep**_ _,"_

 _The emphasis is heartbreaking, and in his confusion, he has forgotten until now what it was that broils up in his body, hot and holding him in a suspenseful grip._

 _Picard says nothing at all, suspicious of how little he knows her, and how she is here, in his quarters nonetheless, telling him how he feels in a way that maybe could be soothing if he were in any kind of mood._

" _Really Counselor, I think this is highly inappropriate and you sh-"_

" _You made a decision?"_

 _Deanna cuts him off before he can say very much more, and there is pain enough in her head to tell her that if she leaves now, she will never sleep until he does._

" _You made a decision, and you haven't decided if it is the right one yet?"_

 _She is stabbing in the dark with terrifying accuracy. The Captain sighs._

" _Years ago?"_

 _Words push him, but her body language is so strangely submissive at this hour, knowing his volatility could spill over into her at any moment, and unsure if she will be able to control it._

" _Yes,"_

 _He responds simply, finally._

" _But I don't understand what that has to do with you-"_

 _Exasperated, desperate, she cuts him off again._

" _Please,"_

 _She begs, like a child, and she is hurting just as he is._

" _Please Captain, I cannot_ _ **sleep**_ _,"_

 _Suddenly, the sound of her voice is very harrowing, and she is trembling, sniffling even, the tears that continue to fall in her anguish._

" _Please,"_

 _And that is all it takes._

 _Picard holds his hands out in his lap, splays the fingers thoughtfully, tries not to clamp them too tightly against all that he is feeling, and the thoughts that are unchecked within him._

" _I made a decision, you're right Counselor,"_

 _He begins, unsure._

" _And it was years ago, but I still don't know if I did the right thing,"_

 _A second sigh of frustration leaves him, and there is a low growl at its root, the stubble on his chin scratching against the palm of one of his hands now, moving and fidgeting the intimacy._

" _There is more,"_

 _Deanna tells him, certain that this cannot be enough to set him so on fire with anger, with confusion and frustration._

" _What don't you want to tell me?"_

 _He meets her eyes again, lets the sight of her weeping through hurting eyes and sitting barefoot on his sofa, the thought of her drifting through the ship in her nightgown, be enough to push him onward, if for her sake rather than his own._

" _Wesley's father,"_

 _A beat._

" _Jack,"_

 _The name is tasteless on his tongue._

" _Today was the anniversary of his death,"_

 _Deanna nods with him, the words new but the feelings that accompany them just the same._

" _And I made the decision that killed him, Counselor,"_

 _Picard shakes his head, dropping it down between his shoulder in shame, saying aloud what fires him now instead draining of him the ants on his skin, and leaving him as just a shell of all the regrets he holds on to._

" _You cannot reconcile that with yourself?"_

 _She questions, and knows telling him it was not his fault will be useless, may even just be a lie, however controversial that thought is._

" _After so many years?"_

 _Deanna then prompts, impatient and just so_ _ **tired**_ _._

" _I can't no, it's this way every year,"_

" _Because you could have saved him,"_

 _Like a flipped switch, she becomes the embodiment of his own anger, lets it work through her like a conduit, and her eyes - she lets them light in the feeling that keeps them awake._

" _Because it ought to have been you,"_

" _No, I -"_

 _He stutters, shocked, never a therapist has confronted him in such a way, with the audacity and the youth and the informality of her._

" _I don't think th-"_

" _Yes you do,"_

 _Deanna counters, the sleep in her voice laced with a venom that is not her own, and tastes foul at the root of her tongue._

" _You are angry at yourself as much as at him - you think he should have disregarded the order,"_

" _No, I would never expect that, he - he was a good officer - he knew the right thing, I… He -"_

" _So then why are you angry?"_

 _Her voice is rising._

" _Because you were too_ _ **weak**_ _to make the other decision?"_

 _She regards him with surprising calm in her demeanour, her voice betraying it all._

" _Were you too weak, Captain, or just a_ _ **coward**_ _?"_

" _No! Absolutely not, that is not how it happened!"_

 _He responds, standing now abruptly to loom over her, but she is unchangeable now, his outrage further fuelling this spiel she works on._

" _Well there must be some other reason why you despise yourself, then? Perhaps you ought to have sent somebody else, done it yourself?"_

 _Picard throws his hands down at his sides, all the fabric of his dressing gown kicking up in a flurry._

" _He was the most qualified, it couldn't have been anybody else!"_

" _So you wanted him to die? You sent him on purpose, out of spite, because you wanted his family as your own?"_

 _Their words come thick and fast, a previously sleepy and tension filled place has cracked clean in two._

" _I couldn't have known he would_ _ **die**_ _, it was a simple mission, there was no way - no way to know what would happen,"_

 _Picard growls._

" _I would never take him away from his family!"_

 _Deanna stands now too, but her legs are unstable from all this energy, all the fatigue, the focus she has to maintain on the barriers in her mind - to keep_ _ **control**_ _._

" _Then what is this frustration, what is this blame if you did everything right? If there was no danger, no way to know, nobody else you could send, no malice to the decision nor cowardice in its calling, then why are you angry?"_

 _Her chin gestures up at him in confrontation, and she comes very close to him, her words falling in volume slightly, but her inflection is impeccable in its iteration of his own feelings, that it might as well be he is arguing with himself at last._

" _You're not angry at him, or yourself, or the atoms that made up the explosion that killed him - then what?"_

 _A vision of a young boy blurs past her eyes, in her mind, then a grown man, it seems, waving to his mother from the bridge of a ship. It's meaning is clear._

" _You are angry at what he has left behind?"_

 _He shakes his head_ _ **no**_ _, like a young boy, freckled and in pants that are too short._

" _You are angry that they were able to live without him, to_ _ **move on**_ _, and you feel you cannot?"_

 _Something strikes in him, and he is not defensive anymore, she is not shouting - the air, without them noticing, has lost its electricity._

" _There were so many things he never got to do with Wesley, and I have wasted my own life dwelling on his memory when they were able to find a way to live despite his absence,"_

 _He takes a settling breath._

" _But I, I have nothing to show, I have left no legacy behind like he has - I'm angry because my whole life up to now means less than his ever did,"_

 _Deanna sighs the feeling of diffusing emotion, as it leaves her and does not return to him, and that same fatigue retakes a hold on her for the moment, her eyelids droop a little as she walks closer towards him._

 _Their faces are only inches apart._

" _Captain,"_

 _She breathes._

" _Your life is much more than the things you have yet to do,"_

 _He looks down to where her hand has wrapped tightly around the fist of his own, slowly unfurling it out with her nimble fingers._

" _Measure it by the acts of those who you care for and nurture, measure your life not by the debts you owe, or the people you have lost, but by the people you have_ _ **saved**_ _,"_

 _She brings his opened palm out now to clasp it in both her hands in between them, small and cold and not quite closing around all his knuckles._

" _In the time we have known each other, I have seen more good deeds done, and more injustices put right than I have ever seen or known of any other person in my lifetime,"_

 _The hand drops abruptly, her eyes waver again, and he watches as she sways a little of her feet, awed of her features now that they are so close to his own._

" _Let that be your legacy,"_

She rolls over again, her own _legacy_ in turmoil inside her, kicking and writhing such that she cannot steal comfort from anybody nearby her. But now that she has opened out her mind further, and taken down a little of the wall so that she may peek over it, ecstasy smacks her open-palmed in the face.

It is a woman whose mind she knows only when it is beneath Will's. And she cannot be angry at her for that weakness.

She is the same woman as he's had a few times over, and as such the feeling of her with somebody else is not surprising, familiar even, for those nights like this when curiosity got the better of her, or she had been simply too tired to hold up those barriers in her mind.

Anybody else might mistake this for weakness, on her part, but then they would be underestimating how difficult and truly arduous a task it is to constantly maintain such strong borders on her mind, whilst making sure she doesn't completely isolate herself.

Balancing between complete singularity, and madness, is a science almost, and an underrated art that she will not profess to have perfected.

She adjusts the pillow beneath her head, switching it to the cold side where her cheeks begin to burn the heat of embarrassment at what the woman feels. Then, maybe, she is just jealous.

A groan of frustration escapes her, legs tingling where they are tucked up together on her side.

Through a series of movements, she extends them, short and prickling the cold air in peach fuzz, then drags them back in one by one, sluggishly as though she is walking along a horizon in slow motion. It does not provide her relief for long, and in lying down for this amount of time without sleep, her hips have started to throb slightly, and there is not any way for her to win this battle.

Ko'lek rises again, and he has thirst in his mind for whatever they had drank over dinner, equally as restless as she. And in so much as she can never understand these things, it is impossible to know whether he is the cause of her own, or the effect.

She groans again.

The man checks on his son, who still probably hasn't even turned in his bed, and she traces his movements as if they are her own, the feelings he has as he quenches the thirst, revels in is silence and his peace anew, then fills up with worry for the crew he has left behind.

He is thinking of his wife, and now she shrinks away from the love there, so dissimilar to how Will had felt, and she is just grateful he is not aboard right now; his mind would have her driven to insanity by this unending night.

Kol returns to his bed, falls asleep very quickly as one who is accustomed to taking it where he can, and she wonders if there is more to him than a father, a husband and a saviour. She'd rather not take the time to ask.

He had spoken so reverently of the _fifth house_ , and of her _line_ , that it had been stifling to sit near him for that time, and listen as he made out that she herself was the Goddess Deanna, that she was the embodiment of all that she stood for. The parallels in their lives are many, she cannot deny, but her childhood had been filled with so many who thought is terribly audacious of her mother to name her so - a mutt, as she had been called - a disabled child named for a Goddess.

To the aristocratic circles their family ran in, she was an abomination in pink silk - probably still is.

Her mother had pointed to her intellect, her aptitude for language and art, calling it a _sign_ , saying she was more truly Betazoid than any of them, that they had lost themselves in snobbery, and she was their to humble them.

Right now, she feels no kind of humble at all.

All her body is in turmoil, upside down and back-to-front, the whole think taken over and out of her control. She finds a tear unexpectedly in her eye and moistening the pillow beneath her, blaming it on _the hormones_ , because she misses her mother so desperately now that she could cave and call her. But then, she would know.

Deanna brings one leg in to her stomach as closely as it will go, flicks her foot rhythmically back and forth.

How could she possibly explain something like this to her mother, to excite her for a grandchild, then disappoint her for its nature, and her continued lack of a husband? She will be blamed for this, for being too young to have a child, even if she is old enough to be married. And Will, he will be blamed too, as if this is all just a tall tale written to distract her from the idea that he is the father, and she has allowed him back into her life so intimately after how he had left.

Lwaxana always told her he was terrible news, that he would be her ruin if she wasn't careful, so wary as she was of the Imzadi bond - another sign, she said - but it was the advice Mr Homm gave her, in a voice he never uses, on a day that her mother spent in bed with a flu, and he had a break from her demands for just a few moments in time.

She had never heard him speak before, and likely won't again, but the man cares for her deeply, and she had felt it keenly as he told her: _you must want to spend the rest of your life with yourself, before another_.

She kicks her leg out again.

He had spoken with a look in his eyes that was nothing of judgement at all, and at the time, just for the sound of his voice and her own excited youth, she hugged him tightly, though his body towers over her own, she had hugged him nonetheless.

Maybe he'd been right, and maybe this makes sense more to her now that she is carrying another life, now that she is terrified over what that means. What if she doesn't love herself?

What if she doesn't want to be with the person she is now, forever? And if that is true, then how can she possibly want to spend her life with a child, and love it and nurture it, if she cannot do the same for herself?

A flurry of kicks pick up against her bladder.

The answer is that she doesn't: doesn't want to spend her life with herself or with a child, and she had known as much a month ago, when she'd sat in a moment of solitude and concentrated on the second consciousness she suddenly possessed. It would not be quashed, did not resist but also did not bend to her will, and since, she has not once dared to look inside the child's mind again, fear of what she might find there clouding her reason.

At this point, her mother would tell her that she ought to be sending love to her child, and receiving it back. She ought to know its gender, it's responses to certain foods, sounds and lights, the other people in her life who it loves to have near.

Deanna desires to know none of these things, isn't even sure if the particular child she finds herself encumbered with is capable of expressing such things, or if it wants to, knowing that she had wanted rid of it.

She groans again, has to go to the bathroom.

She still wants rid of it.


	28. Late

She is late.

Horrifically late.

Spectacularly, tremendously, unceremoniously late.

And honestly, she couldn't care less.

If it weren't for Beverly coming by to stick her with a needle and push more painkillers in to her neck then she maybe wouldn't have woken at all. But Beverly did call, and so she is up, thinking about not eating breakfast, brushing her teeth a second time, going back to bed, leaving a message for her mother - anything, really, just to keep herself inside her quarters for a while longer.

She fusses over what to wear, takes the extra time to get new measurements from the body she calls grotesque, then replicates a science uniform again, thinking maybe it needs a second shot. It looks just about as hideous on her as she had imagined, but there will always be tomorrow for her to try something different, after all.

All the people in the corridors seems to notice that she is emerging with reluctance also, and they smile while still giving her a wide berth to pass - then maybe they are equally as repulsed by her she is. In the empty turbolift, she is forced to shake the thought away.

She can no longer sense the Klingon's aboard, strangely, and imagines that maybe they have left, and as much care she had for the little boy, she's thankful not to have to face his father's reverence for her again. Her stomach rumbles, and the floor becomes solid beneath her once again as the doors open, so there is no time to turn back for food; she probably couldn't eat even if she wanted to.

Eyes land on her almost immediately, from all points of the bridge, but it is the Captains that follow her with the most intensity. As she descends the ramp, he stands from his chair.

"Counselor, I was beginning to think I ought to send out a search party,"

His jest is greatly overshadowed by the concern he tries to hide, and at last his are the only eyes left on her, with the others returning to their work with open ears still.

"A whole party just for me?"

Her own voice is weak with the sentiment, but he seems to be smiling along anyway, sitting with her when she does.

"I am honoured,"

They lock gazes for a second, and indecision broils up under his skin, finally breaking out in a smile at her humour, then patting his knee as though it's all looking up from here. Then he asks her something that speaks nothing of things that _look up_ , at all.

"So, how are you feeling?"

A heartbeat gets caught in her throat thinking of an answer. She plays with the seam on her tunic, tries to lay it flat at the base of her stomach as she works to keep herself casual and unphased.

"Just a little tired, dinner with our guests kept me up later than I intended,"

Carefully, she eyes him, and it seems her diversion has worked, got him thinking less of what he asked, and more of what she has told him instead.

"Ah yes,"

He begins, leaning over to regard her more intimately, scratching his chin as he speaks.

"Mr Ko'lek and his son beamed back to their own vessel early this morning once they got word that the repairs had been finished,"

Picard then regards herself more particularly, holding the image of her face at the end of her nose, and lowering his voice just a touch against the listening voices.

"They wished to say goodbye but I told them it would be best to let you sleep,"

There is something of a question to him.

"I hope you don't mind?"

Deanna shakes her head at him, and the unbrushed hair left springing up around her ears shakes with it.

"Not at all, I'm grateful actually,"

She lowers her voice now to a very discreet whisper, and her tone is almost dead trying not to give away too much of herself.

"It is getting much harder to sleep,"

He nods back at her, just as discreetly, then pats the top of her hand sympathetically and leans back away into the centre of his chair again, holding his eyes now to the viewscreen as she goes to do the same, understanding that he probably has nothing useful to say to her at all.

She crosses and uncrosses her legs a few times before anything more happens that's worth noting, but that is the simple monotony of it that she maybe used to love about this job. These weeks have drained much of her ability to love anything from her bones, it seems, until she is more hollow than even a flightless bird.

The person she was at the beginning of all this would have taken this thing by the throat and walked away with it - she's still not sure why she hasn't or where that person has gone now.

"Captain, a message from Ko'lek - he says his ship is ready to depart, he wants to thank you again,"

She jumps, having been lost for an amount of time she is unsure of.

"Hailing frequencies open then Mr Worf,"

Picard responds, and she looks sidelong over at him as he remains in his seat, straightening out his tunic.

The viewscreen changes from the ship hanging sweetly in space, to a bridge that is no longer bustling, and Ko'lek is slightly off-centre in the frame, surrounded by a few other individuals who work calmly at panels, like any other bridge crew.

"Captain, Counselor, good to see you,"

He addresses, his eyes lingering over Deanna for a moment longer than is perhaps polite, but it is not a leer, so Picard is able to let it go without rushing to her aid. She is smiling welcomingly at the two, and she has never really needed his defence before.

"Papa!"

Before either one of them can answer, the small voice from off screen, final translated through the computer, catches them off-guard, and in a second Ridoll's little body is hauled up with grabbing hands onto his father's lap.

"I have someone who wants to say goodbye to you both, if that is okay?"

Kol tells them, and Picard finds himself smiling at the joy of the two, perfectly happy to oblige.

"Of course it is,"

The father then prompts his son to look in the direction of the Captain's seat, instead of fidgeting and searching his eyes all around the bridge, in awe at the scale of it all.

"Thank you for saving my friends, Captain P'ard,"

Ridoll then sounds out in a broken accent, as though this is a rehearsed bit, and Picard breaks into a beam at hearing his own voice for the first time, speaking a language that he was not raised on, simply for their benefit.

"Thank you for saving me Deanna, you have a lucky baby,"

Deanna beams in response too, but there is perhaps scaffolding under it as heat creeps in her cheeks, attention drawn to where she is constantly forcing it away from, however much of her mind that may occupy.

"You are very welcome Ridoll, it was a pleasure meeting you,"

She responds formally, conscious that she she is still on the bridge surrounded by colleagues and subordinates alike, always trying her best to save face and keep away those certain parts of herself that are often best left concealed.

"And please send our thanks to your medical officers, Dr Crusher in particular, I'm told she treated all our passengers fairly and with great consideration, something we do not see often,"

Picard takes his eyes from a brief glance at his companion, back to Kol, still smiling that same smile of diplomacy, and maybe behind it there is joy.

Deanna's walls are up so firmly today that she cannot say for sure.

"I'll be sure to pass on the message - do you have everything you need to get underway?"

Ko'lek nods his head, bounces the boy on his lap to keep him upright.

"We do yes, the cloak will be up for the remainder of our journey, and I should still make it home in time to see my daughter born, that is down to you Captain, I cannot thank you enough, you're generosity will not be forgotten,"

The little boy jumps down, and wanders away to another crewman, chatting on about his _baby sister_ , and Picard stands now, tugging his uniform ever straighter and finding position at the centre of the bridge.

"Good luck on your travels then Captain, you do good work too, the universe needs more men like you,"

He responds sincerely, and Kol nods once with grateful eyes, bowing his head deeply as the screen cuts dead.

They watch then, as a relic of the old empire phases out into the space around them, it's hull morphing into distant stars like the waving of a flag, until they are gazing into the rest of the universe all over again, like the entire affair never happened.

"Well,"

Picard starts, looking around himself for whatever is next on their list.

"We'd better be getting back to the Tiberius before they start to miss us - helm, maximum warp,"

"Aye sir,"

The Captain swings around, before he can watch space blur into a glowing white tunnel around them, and regards Deanna with a raised brow, coming back towards her with slow and deliberate steps.

"Well Counselor, there's something to add to your job description,"

She frowns, hums a little in her question.

"Therapist, diplomat, and now saviour of children,"

There is only a little sarcasm to him, and a weak smile is all she can offer in return.

She speaks quickly before he can sit down again.

"Actually Sir, I had best be getting back to that, I have an appointment to prepare for,"

All the humour falls away from him as he notices her reluctance to play along, sincerely missing that raw honesty she had in her, the playfulness, like an exposed wire. So he nods back, holds out a hand in offer of helping her up from her seat, and tells her:

"Of course,"

Then he feels as she slips her small hand into his own, and tries to be elegant in pulling herself up, so he pulls only gently at her arm, and simply steadies her as she gets to her feet.

He feels a slight of hatred bubbling in him at what this has done to her, then quashes it just as soon, calling it _her decision_ , and _not his fault_ , as she will surely remind him to do at some point, if ever he should call for her counsel.

For the minute, he is reluctant to do so, and watches as she takes her hand back from him, cold skin leaving him very quickly, then walks away off up the ramp of the bridge, nodding her head at those crewman she passes who cannot help but stare.

More than once, he has wished for her biology, that maybe he could see what is inside of her as keenly as she sees what's in him; but for the pain it has caused her in the past, he decides maybe not to call it a gift and instead a burden, as with many of the things she carries.

The turbolift encases her, and so he sits back down, a man alone, his morning moving like that great wheel that scholars have quite often spoken of, everything turning at a pace he cannot keep up with.

Looking up now to the viewscreen, it is but a window to all the fast moving stars around them, nothing slowing down to see that the world is much more complicated than the speed of light, or the great wheel, or even the single look in a woman's eyes that sparks the creation of a million more stars, everything turning on.

He wants more than anything for that look not to be _hers_ , but it so often is that he can't help but notice now that it is not, that her voice hadn't even sounded like a song when she spoke, that there was nothing of poetry to her movements, or creation to her eyes. Something has changed her - he knows what - but knowing and understanding are two very different things.


	29. The Ensign

He turns his eyes to regard the rest of the bridge.

Deanna had been so good with the boy, maternal even, and he wonders now why she cannot be that way with her own child; if it is truly made of her, she should have no real reason to hold herself at arms length, to be cold as she has been so much lately. Maybe Beverly was right to call it _violation_ , maybe the girl does need help more than they can offer her, and maybe he had been right when he'd said a month ago that they should take her somewhere other than here.

Beverly argued for _family_ , for the feeling of being _home_ , but he had seen her in the very house that she had been built by, and home now seems a much more foreign concept, the further those stars drag themselves by. How can they even try to call themselves her family, when all that seems to happen is they get further away too, as she pushes and they do not push back?

Will had almost ruined her, and he says that he loves her, so what hope remains for the rest of them in reaching her, what hope is there for the girl herself?

Ought he be the one to confront her about this - dare he say it - _depression_? Perhaps that's his job, as Captain, and he's neglected it long enough now that she's had time to make herself into a shell of who he wants her to be. And maybe that is selfish of him.

Suddenly, he has to find her, he has to speak with her, if only to seek her own counsel on the matter as he has done so many times before, only this time he will have to push, he will have to make her squirm as she has made him; he will first have to ask her exactly how to make her see what is happening to her.

He stands abruptly, and the thought collides with him: what if she already has seen it, and doesn't care.

"You have the bridge Mr Data,"

The man stands too from his panel, and the right people move in to change their stations, with others turning to him, curiosity in their eyes.

"I think I'll take an early lunch,"

He clarifies, stepping aside for Data to sit in his chair, then nodding to him and turning up along the ramp to the turbolift, holding composure in all his movements until he too is encased by the turbolift doors shutting around his body.

Then, he takes a deep breath, slumps down a little against the nerves in his stomach.

He has to find her, he has to see her and talk to her and help her see sense.

All of a sudden _he has to find her_.

"I'm trying very hard to be polite, Ensign, but if you come any closer to me with that scalpel I will be forced to do something very unbecoming of a Ship's Counselor,"

Deanna's voice carries with such strength, that even the doors cannot hold it back - she does not sound scared.

"Deanna?"

He calls to her, and it is tangible how the air holds in suspension to the tune of a low rambling he cannot make out.

"Captain Picard? Do not come any closer, Ensign Tralk is suffering a psychological episode, he is very unstable,"

And still, she does not sound scared.

He doesn't listen to her request though, worry for her safety circling a drain in his mind that ends in the word _scalpel_ \- because he will not have anyone hurt her now.

Around the corner, his footsteps have much more impact in the tension, each one loud and ungainly. Deanna is there, backed almost to the wall on the left of the corridor, her arms up in a gesture of submission. Her stomach juts out unprotected in front of her, and it brings a sickness to his own, a dread borne of the sight of a golden ensign on the right hand side.

Tralk is not against the wall, he is out in the middle of the space with a glinting piece of sharpened metal in his hand. There is a searing beam emanating from it, red and hot and causing all the air to become distorted around it.

He is sweating, his jaw swinging, his free hand swiping over the sheen on his face.

Picard finds himself suddenly under the gaze of a manic pair of eyes, but _she_ has yet to acknowledge him.

"You said you wouldn't call anyone, you called him you lied to me! Why is he here why did you call him you said you wouldn't why?"

The man rambles, older than her, his mouth creating sounds like the wine of a child.

Deanna is gently shaking her head.

"Listen to me Rosch, breathe, you know me, you know that I keep my word, and I promised I would not call anybody,"

She takes a moment to regard him at last, however fleeting, he cannot even measure the shade of her eyes.

"Captain Picard was just taking a walk,"

"A walk a walk a walk…"

Tralk echoes her, shifting his feet, and she focuses her attention for only one second on his weapon, then back to where he still looks into the Captains eyes.

"Look at me, please Rosch, he isn't who you are angry at,"

Deanna calls him, feeling how his own attention has started to stretch into a delusion that encompasses Picard now too.

"You know he had no part in what happened,"

He turns back to her with the sorrow of a child.

"You know that - don't you?"

She presses, and he nods shakily, under the influence maybe, of something that cannot be seen.

"I know that yes, I know I do I know yes, I do I do do I do -"

Tralk mutters on, his bobbing head and swinging jaw directed only at her, and for a moment his head lulls, his eyes droop, and her own have narrowed in imperceptible concentration.

Suddenly, she has to take a deep breath, and he stops his rambling, focuses with more clarity on her face.

"Yes, you you did it to her, you stole her from us and it's your fault all your fault your,"

An anger has flared in his voice, the scalpel blazes more intensely and he moves to take a step towards her, pressing ever closer.

The Captain attempts to say something, _anything_ , but finds himself silenced somehow, the words stolen from his mind.

"Rosch, you know that is not true, Yoleen would have lost your daughter no matter what anybody did, it is not my fault, nor is it yours,"

Deanna tries to push back his advances, her arms coming a little further out at her sides, and it looks as though he has hit a wall, invisible yet impassible.

"But you stole her, you stole my baby daughter!"

The arm holding the scalpel rises hastily to point accusation at her stomach, but she doesn't even flinch for its sake. Picard is horrified in his silence, unable to even move.

Tralk's arm stops abruptly, at that same wall, everybody frozen but her.

"I warned you about that scalpel Ensign, I do not want to have to hurt you, I want to talk,"

Deanna tells him squarely, surely, and Picard's mind does somersaults of disbelief, the scene completely ridiculous, and her threatening a man pointing a flaming scalpel at her, when she is so much smaller and younger than him.

But it is in her voice, and in the purple hue of her eyes, that makes him believe she has control.

"You can't help me you can't, that is my baby I want her back you stole her from me she's mine!"

Tralk seems almost beyond pulling back into reality, something gripping him of psychosis, of grief and burden and terrible self-blame.

A groan, low and almost inaudible, bubbles in Deanna's throat, and it is possible just now to see that there is a vein popping along the side of her neck, stark against the high collar of her uniform tunic. Blood has built in her head, turning her red, and there is something of dreadful concentration to her, of strain that she cannot withstand much longer.

The man's hysteria becomes the whole space, and Picard is wondering why security has not come by, why nobody has heard the shouting or smelt the flaming scalpel. Deanna has begun to wince against the same invisible strain, and slowly he feels able to move just a little more. It is not much.

The look in her eyes, black and purple and terribly disappeared, and he wonders if it is not her who has the hold on him.

He blinks the sight of her - horrible.

"Please, put the scalpel down, think about your daughter, about Yoleen - she cannot lose you too,"

Rosch seems to ponder the thought, an emotion that has been pushed into his mind, but it seems too turbulent within, and the chaos has her reeling.

Deanna grabs her head, driven by his psychosis, and the pain is spectacular, such that she loses grip on his mind long enough to pull her sanity from him, long enough to let him slip away.

"No, you're trying to manipulate me, it's you, you stole my daughter, you're lying to me, you're evil - Captain, she's evil, don't listen to her, she'll get in your head and make you, make you think you're crazy,"

Tralk fumes, his words completely crazed now, directionless, and he is not even looking in Picard's direction to address him, calling out to anybody really who will listen. Still distracted, Deanna's back falls against the wall, dizzy, and he lights up alarmed.

"I'm not crazy, I'm _not crazy_!"

The bond on him is broken for a moment, and Tralk lunges forwards, catches her in a moment of deep breathing against his own sensation, and swipes outwards with his weaponed hand.

The sound, _god the sound_ , he will be unable to forget it: melting fabric that crackles in the heat and shrinks away, and then the piercing of a wail that is not even so loud to startle him, like an injured animal already hurting, and the smell of skin that burns away.

And still, unfathomably, he is unable to move towards her, to disarm the man, to cover up where her uniform has been scorched away into her bare stomach.

He thinks he may see blood, but is too scared to confirm.

Then, Deanna's mouth is shut over to the sound, and she has sunk to the floor heavily, eyes heavy and downcast, still breathing in the same pattern of meditation and control. A terrible thing happens to Tralk, so suddenly that even he might not know it is happening; the scalpel falls limply from his hands onto the floor, finally shut off, and he reaches for his head desperately. The man howls, in pain, from the mania, from the voice he has now inside his mind which overrides all those others that had been whispering to him.

He hits the floor with a much heavier thud than she had, a few feet from her, in the middle of the corridor, in a puddle of a broken man. And Deanna's hands have not even moved to cover where she is injured, her face has not yet registered the pain but for her one scream, and instead, her concentration is elsewhere.

"Captain,"

The man whimpers, eyes squeezed tight shut, and the voice does not seem to be his.

"Call… Security,"

He forces out, but it is not really him at all.

There is no moment of hesitation to Picard then, and like a switch has been pulled, he is suddenly mobile and reaching to the wall panel for the panic button, hitting it harder than needs be, until klaxons are blaring loudly in the space.

Through the flashing lights, he watches something change in Tralk, another pulled switch, and his eyes open slowly, timidly, his hands removed now from where they had tugged at his hair.

Deanna's own eyes open, tiredly and finally, and she is slumped against the wall, her head dropping back to rest on it as though she is defeated, breathing in less even ways, less deeply.

"Oh gods what did I do?"

Rosch asks himself, seeing her there, but there is grace even for him.

"Nothing,"

Her voice is clean and soft.

"You did nothing, I did,"

There is something of self-loathing to her, and neither has the patience to work it out. Tralk is shuffling towards her, his hand reaching to touch the scorched skin of her stomach.

"You're hurt, I hurt you didn't I, that was me?"

He asks, but there is nothing of his rambling self anymore, just a man who notices now how he has made mistakes. Fingers come so close to her, but she shifts, and he is frozen.

"I am fine, just don't - please don't touch me,"

She takes a deep breath now, and looks up and to the right, straight into the Captain's eyes. He can understand her message.

"Picard to O'brien, I need a -"

Deanna shakes her head at him, and he is frozen around the comm badge.

"I can walk, please,"

She pleads.

"Sir?"

O'briens voice crackles through. Security start to round the corner, phasers in hand. Too much has started to happen.

"Never mind Lieutenant, disregard that last, Picard out,"

The line cuts, and two more golden men approach, holstering their weapons when they see what has unfolded. From the floor, Deanna speaks out to them, bypassing whatever he had wanted to order about the brig, or a _court martial_. She is an infinitely more forgiving person than he.

"Gentlemen, could you please escort Ensign Tralk to Counselor Moore's office, they'll know why he's there - just stay with them until they tell you everything is under control,"

She is concise enough for her injury, and they do not question her before helping Rosch off the floor and taking him arm in arm to help how he stumbles slightly, looking back over his shoulder to see as the Captain finally can move closer towards Deanna, concern evident in all his movement.

"Deanna, you're bleeding!"

He exclaims, crouching in front of her to inspect what has been done.

"You should have let me send him to the brig,"

She shakes her head, hands now coming to ghost past the burnt skin, not looking or touching but simply feeling the heat of the air there.

"He is a grieving man with a rare form of schizophrenia, Captain, he does not need the _brig_ , he needs to talk, and to have his treatment reviewed - he is Moore's patient and not mine,"

Her voice has started to become slightly strained, and now that she is back inside the confines of her own mind, the pain has begun to let itself known. She is sweating at her temples, her face pale in creeping shock.

"Okay, well we'll talk about it later, but now you need to get to Beverly,"

Picard tells her, shaking his head, evaluating her whole person, measuring whether she will need to be lifted or not, sure that is a task he will be able to accomplish with his Command in-tact.

"Do you think you can walk?"

He asks her, and she is already lifting her arms up to ask for his assistance in standing, her back terribly cramped now from slumping, her stomach starting to send pains shooting through the nerves in the surface of her skin.

The smell of her own burnt flesh is filling their nostrils.

Picard grasps her hands firmly, and tries not to pull too hard on her body, hauling her up under steam that seems to have come from nowhere. Immediately, she is dizzy.

Deanna's legs are not holding her completely upright, and instead, she is tipping forward, a hand on her head and the other atop her thigh, trying not to hit the floor once her support has gone. She inhales deeply through her nostrils, and then slowly out through her mouth, a sudden nausea made of her, swaying.

Command is not enough reason for him to keep his hands off her now.

"You feel sick?"

He asks of her, dipping down to accept her right arm around his neck, and looping his own around her waist, careful not to let his fingers extend too far into charred flesh. She is much smaller than he is, even in those heeled uniform boots, and he finds himself slowly guiding her down the corridor with his knees bent in accommodation, paces short and measured.

"I will be fine,"

Deanna turns her nose upwards to the smell, swallowing over the nausea and the pride of accepting his help, her hair just now falling free of it's ties and sticking to the cold sweat on her face.

The turbolift doors open into a mercifully empty space.

"How badly do you think he hurt you?"

The Captain asks her, leaning himself on the wall for further support, after they have started to move upwards, his command not verbally required when they are only one deck away.

"It is just the flesh,"

She tells him, still not having looked down or touched the injury, the pain that she is incapable of taking away from herself overriding whatever sensibility she might desire to practice. A braver man, Picard cranes to look down at exposed skin, and it is raw, drawing in shades of deeper red the closer to the centre of where the scalpel had hit it gets, the whole thing no less than an inch and a half in diameter, and bordered by hardened and black melted uniform.

"No I think the scalpel went deeper than that,"

The doors fly open, and he has no more chance to scrutinise. Again, he is propping her up, and they are maneuvering along another empty corridor.

"I am fine, Jean please,"

She startles him by using his name, and he thinks maybe it has something to do with how close they are touching, how there are points where their skin is touching a shared warmth and it is impossible to want to call her anything but her own self.

"We'll just let Crusher be the judge of that then Deanna, you're too stubborn for your own good,"

Picard jests lightly, wanting to maybe dig her in the ribs to mirror the glint in his eye, but he refrains, knowing it will not end well. She smiles, knowing his intention was to make her do so, and continues on a walk that becomes increasingly hard to force from her legs, where they have started to tremble more seriously beneath her.

The Captain can see this in her, and adjusts his speed again to slow to her snail pace, looking up ahead of them to where the sickbay doors tease their presence, so close but still a little too far to walk.

He listens to her breathing become laboured, and can feel even how her chest rises unevenly to take in only shallow breaths beside him; he counts the steps that remain before them.

Deanna's free hand has reached beneath her stomach to support the weight, and she holds on with white knuckles, the two of them a terrible sight.

"Doctor Crusher, some help please!"

Picard is yelling into the opening doors, the second they are close enough and only two steps remain before they cross the threshold to where the place is humming with activity. Thankfully, she is not busy, and hears his voice like it is the one thing she was born to do.

Beverly meets them at a jog, seeing how he has brought Deanna clinging into his side.

"My God, Deanna?"

Suddenly, in a rush of sweeping blue fabric, she is at Deanna's other side, tall and stooping over the site of injury; her fingers dance around the sticky fabric.

"Come on, there's a free bed over here,"

The Doctor directs them, straightening out and taking Deanna's arm from where she cradles her stomach, looping it around her own shoulder so that the woman is suspended between them both. She lets out a huff of air as her body pulls upwards slightly, her lungs expanding involuntarily, and a low _oomph_ sound leaves her as she is hustled, jostled further into Sickbay.

She cannot explain to herself how only a few minutes ago she was completely fine, and now, can barely stand.

"What happened?"

Beverly asks them both, and they find themselves moving slowly towards the empty suite against the back wall.

Picards answer is damningly concise.

"High energy laser scalpel, a few minutes ago,"

Deanna hums again, not a response, but maybe more of an aversion to how he is starting to build the memory in his mind.

She shakes her head - dizzy.

"It was just… an accident."

Beverly raises her eyebrows, but they have reached the bed and she has no more walking space to press them with questions on what has happened. They round the space to face outwards from it, and she begins to push upwards on the arm around her shoulder.

"Here, sit."

And Picard catches on fast, lifting her slightly by the other arm, back and up onto the raised biobed surface, though Deanna has said nothing more through further shallow breaths.

"Deanna?"

He tries to get her attention, then turns to where Crusher has left them to collect a trolley.

"Doctor, she looks pale?"

Picard tries to keep the alarm from his voice, turns again back to face his Counselor, asks the same question as before.

"You feel sick?"

One of her dainty hands has begun to struggle at covering her mouth, and the other has a white knuckled grip on the fabric edge of the bed beneath her. He prides himself on the speed of his reaction, with no idea how he knew where a basin would be but somehow finding one in his hands in a split second, holding it up beneath her chin.

The sound is harrowing, and behind him he can hear Beverly begin to react herself.

"She's probably in shock, just let her get it out,"

Her instruction is just what he would have imagined, and she continues to leave him to his own devices - a Captain and not a Doctor.

With a second awkward hand, Picard starts to pull the sweaty tendrils of hair from away from her face, smoothing them back over her crown so that they are not in her way, then he travels down to close into a fist that rubs knuckles over her back, a circle he remembers from his youth.

Deanna groans, and he thinks he can hear _I'm sorry_ reverberating in the metal dish, but it is much too worrisome for him to care, and Beverly is coming back to them with a laden trolley of equipment he does not want to know the uses of. She takes the bowl from his hand in her own steadier two, leaving him free to rub one of the girls shoulders, anything to distract her from how painful this retching sounds.

Mercifully, it does not last for very much longer, and with both hands now he is able to smooth all along the length of Deanna's back, feeling how there is so much tension, so many knots that she likely has nobody to knead away for her.

Will, sitting on someone else's bridge, another solar system away, a smile of self satisfaction on his face, flashes through his mind.

"Finished?"

Beverly questions her when it has been silent for a few moments, and Deanna nods just once before the dish is taken from under her chin, and swiftly deposited in the waste disposal beneath the bed. She is paler still, if that is possible, and has started to shake as though she is cold.

"Help her lie back for me?"

Picard is asked, and he blinks taking his hands away from her as he watches the Doctor reach down for her tricorder at last. There are a series of tricky manoeuvres as he eases down onto his feet, then tries to work out the best way to help Deanna's slow and jutting movements, where she has begun to try to sweep her legs up at the same time as she shifts further back and along the bed. He settles for taking a slight dip in front of her, replacing where Beverly had been standing and letting her rest her delicate hands on top of his shoulders to push herself back and away from him.

A frown registers on his face as he realises she has not really exerted much pressure onto him, and he is barely moved at all by the force of her moving away, her arms and legs shaking the effort of pulling herself to now lie along the length of the bed, twisting to sit against the raised back.

He is swept unceremoniously out of the way by Beverly, who has finally sorted out the things she needs, and is waving the wand of a tricorder very specifically over Deanna's stomach, her concerns for the _child_.

Deanna seemed to have had no concerns at all.

She shuts her eyes, and Picard finds himself rounding the bed once again to stand out of the way, at her head with his back against the wall, fiddling the fingers of his idle hands.

He ends up looking away when he sees that Beverly has begun to try to peel away Deanna's uniform tunic to expose the wound, but his ears find themselves unable to ignore how she tries to breathe through the pain of tugging flesh. Somehow, he is surprised that she does not reach for his hand, for some kind of support, and this fierce independence in the wake of Will's clumsy romance is going to hurt her more in the end.

"God this is a mess!"

Beverly exclaims, moreso to herself as she continues to try to extract bits of melted cloth from an open wound, everything becoming one mass of raw nerves and things she is nervous to pull at. Her voice makes him look over at last, to see that Deanna's stomach has been exposed up to where it rounds beneath her ribs, and the doctor is fussing with the towelling she has tucked into the top of her uniform pants.

He would blush at how suddenly she has been exposed, but he's too busy breathing through the feeling of heat in the pit of his stomach at what _has_ been exposed.

"Would you pull the curtain round?"

The instruction is enough for him to pull his eyes away, and busy himself on the task. There is colour enough left in his face to fix the crewmen who have begun to stare with a stern glance, before dragging a blue and rarely used curtain around the whole bay, sealing them off from all those prying eyes.

Picard turns back to them, and she has begun to start again with an extraction beam, trying to isolate all those pieces of melted cloth without having yet considered how Deanna's face is screwing up, and perhaps that gleam halfway down her cheek is a tear that she had allowed to fall silently.

"Thanks, you can go if you need to,"

Crusher adds, throwing the words over her shoulder, focused intensely on this one single patch of skin. He hears a suppressed squeal when the tool lights up more harshly, and decides then to stay, if only to advocate.

"Doctor - the pain?"

Picard admonishes, returning to the head of the bed and regarding the pinched expression on Deanna's face, pointing even a little to demonstrate that her silence is no sign of her well-being. Beverly seems uncharacteristically unphased.

"I have to clean the wound before it starts to seal,"

She explains, intent in her work.

"And she's already maxed out on her daily limit, I can't give her anymore pain meds without risking liver damage,"

Picard frowns, running an absent minded hand over his counselors forehead, where she is cold and clammy.

"But you haven't given her anythi-"

Beverly's quick look up into his eyes silences his words, and he might be more confused than before, if it weren't for the memory of their meeting the other day, of the replication approval he had to sign off on for Sickbay, the use of controlled substances in just one patients care.

"It does not hurt,"

Deanna pipes, her voice low. Dr Crusher hits on a nerve just then, and she gasps, her eyes opening wide with pupils unfixed.

"Well I know that's a lie,"

He tells her fondly, smoothing her hair back again, watching the uneven rise and fall of her chest. She yelps again, her body jolts a little, and he has to tighten his other hand into a fist, just to remain by her side.

"I'm sorry Dee, just a few more,"

Beverly's voice is soothing, but her actions continue in much the same way, and Deanna has begun to _shiver_.

"This is ridiculous!"

Picard groans, fist tight.

"What possessed you to pick a fight with an armed madman?"

He is angry, but she knows it is not directed at her.

A rattling breath leaves her.

"I did not… pick a fight,"

Deanna gets out through a tightening jaw, her eyelids swinging over pinched pupils, head rested up on the bulkhead wall.

"Ensign Tralk… came… to me,"

She jumps along with another whimper as Beverly continues her work, only half listening. Her eyes start to track the room, as though it is moving and only she can tell.

"His daughter had… a condition… she was stillborn… same time as -"

Deanna swallows, wafts down at her stomach with a worryingly limp wristed hand.

" - this,"

He runs his hand now down to her shoulder, and she truly is trembling down to her feet, where they rest at the end of the bed; on his way back up her body, he lands again at her stomach, his own sinking in despair.

She is bruised in light, spidery patterns, though shockingly her skin remains porcelain white as a backdrop, with no stretch marks to indicate the speed of growth, only the certain impact zones, where thin skin has turned purple in small and concentrated ovals.

Even he could shudder at the thought.

"It is not -"

Deanna continues on, but stops to pull in a breath that is rattling into her body more loudly, if that is possible, than her voice can carry out.

" -his fault,"

He looks down to Beverly, whose hands appear to have stopped, and he is still frowning over Deanna's words, with no possible response when he knows that she is right, as she most often is. The tool lights up brightly again, and this time her cry is much more harrowing to hear, and if it weren't so childish of him, he would simply cover over his ears in ignorance.

"Beverly it _burns_ ,"

Deanna groans, and this is the first moment she has taken to admit, even in roundabout ways, that she is not fine, that she is feeling pain. He cannot stand it, and unclasps his fist to take her hand more softly, that maybe her grace will ground him.

"She's freezing,"

Picard tells her, and Crusher stands straight again, the precision extractor disengaged and rolling now in her palm.

"Here, here, it's the shock,"

She repeats, pushing a folded foil blanket onto the bed as she digs with her other hand for something in the trolley, and he takes it quickly to shake out and tuck around Deanna's body, leaving her side for a few seconds. With care, and consideration perhaps the Doctor did not even have, he finds himself removing her boots and dropping them to the floor, delighted for a brief and fluttering moment to see that she wears odd socks in highly non-regulation shades of pink. A smile takes him for a second before they are covered up by the blanket, and he continues to move around her to tuck her securely up, only leaving exposed the one side where Beverly continues to work on her wound, having finally turned back to them with a metallic tube, and a dermal regenerator.

Deanna gasps as he returns to her head, because cold fingers have begun spreading a salve across the raw skin that at least is now free of melted fabric, but continues to burn raw with edges that now are yellowed slightly, the whole sight overwhelming to see of her stomach especially.

She is all the colours of an awful dream.

Picard holds on to her hand like it is both a clasped vice that traps him, and a flower whose petals have begun to wilt.

Better than the comfort of himself, he unclasps and tucks the flower, the frozen metal vice back under the blanket with the rest of her trembling body.

"It's just the shock, she'll be fine,"

Crusher reiterates, seeing how he fusses, continuing her own ministrations with just the three fingers of one hand, consciously gentle at last.

"I am… so sorry… for this,"

The girl grinds out through chattering teeth, clear now that she clings on very loosely to her waking and alert self.

"I don't… know why-"

"Stop, Troi, it's just the physical reaction to being burnt so badly, you can't help it so just let us help you,"

Beverly seems now to be at least in some kind of stride, acknowledging both her work and her patient with equal measures of attention. Deanna nods, but there is an alarm rising all of a sudden around her; her head is lulling with less intent than they think.

"Hey, Deanna?!"

Picard looks back at the girl along with Beverly's attention, and there is a panel lighting up on the wall the Counselor slumps against.

"Christ it's her heart rate!"

The Doctor might be cursing under her breath, but there is not quiet enough to hear as she rushes over to Deanna's other side, wiping her fingers off on her coat before gripping either side of the girls face.

She pushes her fingers up under Deanna's chin, the fastest way to feel for herself how the pulse is weak, her breathing shallow.

"Breathe Deanna - deeply, c'mon,"

Crusher instructs her, and then moves her hand to pull back Deanna's eyelids, the almost imperceptible pupils swelling to absorb her whole eye - wide and saucer-like.

He does not know what to do with himself, and slowly has found himself with his back up to the curtain, watching on in awe as Beverly demonstrates deep breathing while holding Troi's face in solid hands, to make her focus on at least one point.

This goes on for close to a minute, and it feels like too many lifetimes before anybody speaks again, the urgency still not lost.

"Could you get her talking, Jean-Luc, I need to check on the baby,"

He gulps the intimacy, thinks _mierde_ , because he had forgotten for a moment that it was a child in there, and not a parasite wasting her away. So he steps back into action, back to the head of the bed so that he is almost on eye level with Deanna, looking only slightly down into those deepened and wandering eyes.

He brushes past her forehead with the back of his hand as Beverly kneels at the trolley again, and she is struggling still to puff the air around them.

"Why - why don't you tell me about… the nursery, then?"

He improvises, thinking it's something she will want to talk about.

"I - I have not thought… about it,"

Deanna tells him, eyelids wide and alarmed for a second, but the sentiment leaves very soon.

"Well then did you have anything in mind?"

He presses.

Deanna swallows and screws up her eyes, Beverly has opened out the blanket again, and is placing down the dermal regenerator over her angered skin. The sensation is more than unpleasant, though the past informs her it will be over soon.

"Research suggests… infants respond… to contrast,"

She says at last, and he finds a bead of frustration like sweat on his forehead, that she is talking like a clinician, like a woman who is _not_ pregnant, or at least, will not be a _mother_. Picard wonders if this is how she truly feels, if she has detached herself and he hasn't noticed.

"Yes, but what would _you_ like to do?"

Deanna hums, breathes one deep breath in a sea of shallow ones, and she turns her eyes on him terrifyingly - he worries for a moment that she will tell him _exactly_ what she would like.

"Decoration… is not so much… the problem… as assembling the furniture,"

She responds less frankly, but still with the honestly she prides herself in, and so he hops on the balls of his feet, hopes maybe he can find a solution for this somehow. Beverly takes a glance up from where she is hunched over, and her eyes have grown in sadness at the sincerity of it, thinking of how she'd had to cobble together the replicated parts of a crib, one of the too many nights that Jack had been away.

She looks back down, finally having set the regenerator, and turns to search for some other piece of equipment, noting how Deanna's trembling is slowly beginning to subside.

"I thought Mr Data was helping you out in that respect?"

Picard asks at last, noting similar things, and the way her jaw is not so tightly clenched anymore.

"I do not like to ask,"

Finally, she is able to form a full sentence without having to huff, or unclasp her jaw, and he smiles back despite himself, because the shock seems gratefully to be easing its hold on her.

"He's eager to help Counselor, you shouldn't think you're putting him out of his way,"

He chides her, and she is taking one deep and concentrated breath when her eyes meet his, telling him this is perhaps not the best topic to ease her slowed heart rate.

Beverly reemerges once again, this time with an aluminum Pinard Horn in her hand, and he eyes it warily, confused.

"That's a little old-fashioned isn't it Doctor?"

Picard asks, his attention turned away from Deanna, whose eyes were not words that could carry any kind of conversation worth having right now. The doctor chuckles despite herself.

"Sometimes there's just no substitute for something that works,"

She tells him, a glint in her eyes that tells of her deep love affair with medicine, and he smiles too, still, watches how she moves with skilled fingers to hold the belled end of the instrument against Deanna's stomach.

The girl hisses.

"Deanna?"

Smile falling away from his face, he turns back to look at her with concern, and already she is shaking her head _no_ , shuffling her shoulders a little beneath the blanket.

"Nothing, I'm fine,"

She hushes his sudden terror, but it is a blatant and bald faced lie that he might have been foolish not to expect from her - whatever she may say about keeping her promises, she never promised _not to lie_.

"The skin is tender and the horn is cold,"

Beverly says on her behalf, meeting first Deanna's eyes with a crooked eyebrow, and then the Captains, with the exasperation of a good doctor, and a worried friend.

"I'll try to avoid some of the bigger bruises,"

She then tells Deanna, back to her eyes again before finally turning her attention back to the work. Picard's swallow is audible, as he takes an even closer look for just one split second, at the _bigger bruises_ Beverly refers to - it is ghastly, he thinks, and does not look for very much longer.

"So,"

He faces Deanna again, looking to distract them both now; she is still too pale, but her body no longer sweats so coldly.

"What about names - do you have anything in mind?"

And perhaps he has not learnt his lesson, about what he ought leave alone.

"I had not considered -"

Deanna starts, but her own thoughts stop her abruptly; considered what - that at the end of all this there would be a child, requiring a name, a place to sleep and a loving parent? Shock holds her tightly again for a second, for she has none of these things to offer.

"No, not yet,"

She corrects, after a beat that does not pass unmissed, but rather unheaded by Picard, who thinks she maybe just needed the time to breathe again, that her heart is starting to beat like all the other shiny people's.

"Well, might I suggest _not_ going with Jean-luc, the boy will never live it down I'm afraid,"

A laugh accompanies his words, self-deprecating and reminiscent of a schoolyard in rural France, nobody _French_ at all. The Counselor smiles at this, trying to ignore how Beverly searches the globe of her stomach for the best angle to hear the heartbeat, the horn end pushing in against her skin every few seconds, with force enough to distract her.

"I would never dare,"

She jests in return, a shiver running up her spine to cause a tight shudder in her neck, and she reaches out of the blanket to scratch at her temple, feeling a rush of blood to the appendage the second she manages to inspire its movement.

"What about your father?"

Picard ventures, but this is too far; anything of jest is gone from them both too suddenly to be coincidence.

"I had been… hoping to save that… for-"

Though she cannot go on, or tell him _what for_ , the taste of it hangs around them, and he knows anyway, he knows he has tried too hard and pushed too far; he begins to wonder if Will has had this feeling too.

The _helplessness_.

"Well, a better time,"

Deanna finishes delicately, maybe as if she would have to love the child to give it such a big name, but then maybe the name would force her to love it - she is not sure.

"Aha!"

Beverly's exclamation severs the feeling that has been suspended between them, oblivious, and she replaces her ear at the horn with her own removed comm badge, using it to amplify the sound.

Frantic, frightful and perfectly _normal_ , a heartbeat sounds out for them all, regular and in keeping with a pattern Beverly taps out on the floor with her boot; the woman's smile says it all.

"You've got a strong one in there, Deanna, completely unphased,"

She says, enjoying the simple sound of life for longer than they need to, and Picard finds himself awed, _harrowed_.

He finds his attention pulled back to Deanna, wonders how many times she's sat in sickbay, under the Doctor's attention since she's been pregnant, and how many times the child has been _fine_ , regardless of whatever trouble she done herself.

The _strong one_ , suspiciously so, continues to show off it's beating heart, but like all hearts, it does not tell lies - the tell tale heart that has been so warningly written of.

Deanna knows it too, knows too much about tell tale hearts, and how her wrists even are bonier than before, how her back struggles against the weight, how her ribs echo her breaths more sharply.

 _Completely unphased_ \- she has to wonder how long it will be before it isn't, and how much trouble she has to be in to even have it take notice that she has a heart too.

Only hers, famously, tells no such tales at all.


	30. Suspicion

"It looks worse than it really is,"

She hears herself say, and even she doesn't believe it.

"Worse than it really is?"

He echoes, far too much depth to the man for her to able to know where this is heading.

"It looked fairly awful to me Doctor!"

Through the glass behind him, a few members of her staff turn their heads from their work at the sound, including the one doctor who checks on Deanna's vitals at the far wall.

Beverly stands abruptly, pointing accusation at him, then walks to the door to her office, entering several commands until the windows have tinted themselves a shield around the room, and the door has puffed itself shut. Their view now of the Sickbay floor is slightly clouded, and the view in is completely obscured from prying eyes; she sits heavily back in her seat.

"Please, just calm down, it's not me you're angry at okay?"

He nods back like a scolded schoolboy, rubs out the palms of his hands on his knees, tries not to physically shake his head against whatever he feels.

Beverly lets out a shaking breath, because she is not his sounding board anymore, and she cannot know what pulls at him this way.

"I just wanted to talk with her,"

He tells her lowly, swallowing.

"And then I turn a corner along some corridor in _my_ ship, to find her being threatened by a member of _my_ crew, and I couldn't do anything at all,"

Something stirs in her of sympathy, and she leans forward over her desk.

"You can't blame yourself for things out of your control, Jean-luc, she's never been _controllable_ , and that hasn't changed now,"

"No, you don't understand,"

Picards responds harshly, as if Deanna _would_ , but she can see in his expression that maybe this was not his intention, and she tries not to take it personally.

"I didn't help her, I couldn't I was frozen,"

Beverly sits back, tips her head to the side as she attempts to find the place he is coming from, though this is an impossible thing to achieve.

"It's perfectly normal, under that kind of stress, that you're body would begin to-"

"No,"

She is cut off again, and he rubs a hand over the top of his head now, a though he cannot himself believe what he's about to say.

"I was _frozen_ ,"

A single heartbeat.

" _She froze me_ ,"

This statement hangs weighted in the air, holding onto a name and all its connotations, until they are the same, and it all comes crashing down with one clarification.

"Deanna?"

Shock registers, but he is much calmer now that he has expressed what burns in him.

"I was in a position to disarm him, and she stopped me from doing that,"

Beverly frowns, then takes a brief glance past his head and towards Deanna's sleeping form, rolled now onto her other side and most obscured by the half closed curtain, completely by the blanket she still is swaddled in.

"I wanted to talk to her about seeing somebody - another counselor - I wanted to tell her she needs help with this,"

He goes on, drawing her attention back to his face.

"I can't be the only one to see that she's not herself, but I'd hoped we weren't _here_ yet,"

They eye each other warily, and she almost wants to dare him to go there, dare him to say something that she will be forced to hold in her confidence, along with so many other terrible things.

"I watched her look at that scalpel Bev, and she wasn't scared, she just didn't care at all,"

Beverly lets her head go for a moment, and it drops between her shoulders to shake back and forth, disappointed, burdened now with knowledge confirmed, that she would be derelict to ignore.

After a silence, she finally speaks.

"What you're saying Jean-luc, that just can't be possible,"

She breathes deeply.

"Frozen? No, she's empathic not telekinetic, no Betazoid is that powerful,"

"That we know of,"

He counters her denial sharply, working on a conspiracy he isn't sure he even believes in. At her incredulous gaze, he elaborates, hands now flat out on the desk before him.

"Data was only given access to their library because he swore not to share that information with anybody, because he was a friend of Deanna's,"

Beverly nods slowly.

"And what our guests said, about the Troi's being myth, that there are stories about what they've done all across the galaxy,"

He leans forward further, conspiratorial.

"I've never heard any stores, never even of the Fifth House, until she came aboard,"

"Jean-luc,"

Beverly raises a hand to halt him, blinking profusely against the trepidation.

"This is _Deanna_ we're talking about, what exactly are you trying to say?"

Something uneasy makes a crisis of her, and maybe he isn't even sure what he means; he shift in his seat, tries for another angle.

"Do you remember when Wesley was a boy, and he wanted to be a superhero?"

She nods.

"He thought he could turn invisible,"

She clarifies, sighing the wistful memory within her, confusion forgotten for just one moment.

"Okay, and now that he is grown, he knows that his superpower is his intellect, and that being invisible is the dream of a child - it doesn't exist?"

Beverly nods again.

"But that doesn't mean he gives up on his invisibility, it just means he has the knowledge now to make it happen, that one power could lead to another - do you understand?"

Picard frowns at her, and she nods a third time, her eyes wide with anticipation at where this is all heading.

He clears his throat.

"Well imagine that telekinesis is Deanna's invisibility, and her real power maybe lies in persuasion, or permission, these things children never consider to ask for,"

He finds himself becoming too suspicious of her, in talking this way, and he turns briefly to look over his shoulder at her, maybe just to check that she is still sleeping, and not listening to him draw up conspiracies about her mind.

"Doesn't that mean that she could use her empathy to achieve any one of these means, if she can give emotion in the same way as she receives it? Wouldn't that mean she could manipulate the way a person feels, to such extent that they were rendered motionless?"

A dawning realisation comes over Beverly, and she leans forward too, the both of them becoming twisted in what they hold now to be truthful.

"You think she gave you her fear, so that you were unable to help?"

He nods, and she huffs out the awe.

"I don't even know that that's possible, and if it is, who's to say she did it on purpose, it could be a defence mechanism that even she doesn't know about,"

Picard shakes his head.

"You know I've grown closer to her than I'm comfortable with, and I want the best for her really, you know that?"

"Of course I do."

They are wrapped up in sympathy and terror.

"Then what if this is because of the child?"

The breath catches in Beverly's throat, because here is something she hasn't once considered since hearing its steady heartbeat.

"What if it has enhanced her abilities, and she's being reckless with them because she doesn't care about herself anymore?"

And it always comes back to this.

"You should have seen her Bev, mon dieu, she was in his head,"

Picards voice is low and fast, as though he is talking only to himself about these things that he cannot be sure of, and she has no way to pull him back from it.

"I don't know what's going on with her, but I can't ignore what I've seen, call it whatever makes sense to you, a genetic mutation whatever, but if this makes her a danger to herself, then we have a duty to call her out."

His connotation becomes more, and Beverly suddenly is standing from her seat, no idea how she caused the movement, and she cannot even breathe for what she is hearing.

"Wait, wait, Jean-luc listen to yourself, you're telling me to go on a witch hunt because of her _biology_ , something beyond her control!"

A horrible silence fills the space between her words, and she smacks her lips in the moment that she has to think, before she simply yells at him without reason, always rushing to the defence another woman who will not be understood by a man - even him.

"You want me to throw around accusations, to confront her just because we don't understand her?"

Beverly runs her hands through her hair, pulls it up to the back of her head then lets it fall down in her frustration; he still has yet to meet her stare.

"She has always been a mystery to us Jean-luc, but you have trusted her judgement from the moment she stepped on your bridge, whatever reach she has and however it comes into play here, that is not for you to start persecuting her for."

He looks up in the moment that she turns herself around in a whip of blue fabric, holding her hands up to her hips and dropping her head down again to gaze at the floor, furious at how they have allowed this _thing_ to change them all.

"Do you hear yourself? My God Jean-luc you sound just like those crewmen who would have her jettisoned,"

Beverly whispers now, fast and holding onto her fire so as not to burn these bridges between them, so as not to let it change her too.

"You're right -"

From behind her, his voice rises lowly to match, and they are both whispering as if this is some terrible secret they wish to keep from even themselves.

"- you're right, I'm just as bad as they are."

He breathes.

"She would tell me I reacted with fear, that fear can be forgiven but ignorance cannot."

He stands too, and Beverly turns around to face him, having heard Deanna tell her that same thing before, and now that she sees the window once again, she watched how the girl has come alive in her bed, legs moving quick, her eyes struggling against reluctant sedation to wake to the emotion.

"I need to understand."

He follows where her eyes have wandered off to, and turns his body in a mirror to her own, sees Deanna try to sit herself up against the wall, being pushed back down by another Doctors hands.

"I'm sorry Bev."

And not for the first time today, he is filled with the same urgency.

"I have to talk to her."


	31. To Speak With a Woman

They are arm in arm, the feel of her there is terribly endearing. It could even make him forget his crusade, if only for a moment of morosity he's sure she must feel in him.

The ship has gone dark. Not in the sense that he cannot see what's in front of him, but rather that another evening has it's light mimicked across the systems, so that every panel throughout the corridors is dim and pulsing the mood of the hour.

She wears now a long gown in place of her ruined uniform, in colours cream and brown, loose over her stomach where he knows there is a salve still soothing the unhealed skin, and so she flows beside him like water.

Beverly had stopped him, in the end, told him to just breathe while she went to check on the girl, and he had breathed so deeply that he had to sit back down for a few rapid heartbeats, willing the whole thing to slow down.

Deanna must have fallen back asleep, because he was told to go to lunch, to do more thinking before he came back for her. She had said she'd call him when she was ready to discharge.

And that had been 10 minutes ago, with him already sailing on anxious legs to Sickbay anyway, before he could be told she'd changed her mind, and it was best that Deanna stay the night instead. The Doctor had looked at them both with fear, as she refused his help down from the bed, as though they two together made up a bomb, or maybe just a picture so disturbing of domesticity, that everything to follow would just destroy them anyway.

They walk arm in arm now, the Captain and the Counselor; to anybody that passess they are just friends, he is just being gentlemanly, she is just tired. But the truth is that they are much more damaged than _just friends_ , and his hold on her is a gesture of necessity, the _fatigue_ of her is pallor that speaks of things worse than _just tired_.

Deanna has yet to say more than two words to him, and they had been simply _thank you_ , repeated over and over with each gesture he afforded her. She has a strange air to her, though her face is largely expressionless, and instead she seems to have readied herself, to be walking slowly in her anticipation.

He hadn't made his offer optional, and though Beverly was wary, she had supported him when he insisted it was the least he could do - to see her home safe.

And as they arrive at her door, slowing to a halt, he turns to her, still not letting go of her arm, and breaks this dreadful silence.

"Mademoiselle,"

He inclines his head, dips his knees a little, humour being the only sword left for him to fall back on.

She does not seem to change her expression even a little in response, and he might be fooled into believing she hadn't even noticed the event. A short arm peels away from her other side, and she leans into the door panel, running her palm over one of the newer scanners to afford them entrance; he thinks it strange that she has changed the authentication method, that it will not just open up when her badge is nearby.

But then, maybe that is smart, and maybe it will change nothing at all.

"You did not walk with me just to drop me off did you?"

Deanna's voice is strangely raspy, but she clears her throat before turning up to regard his face, and he cannot be sure what is real of her, and what is a guise. Like a black hole, her quarters gape out in front of them, and they stand dumply at its entrance looking only into each other, and not at what has opened with threats to consume them.

"You wanted to talk,"

She tells him bluntly, and he is nodding before he even knows what she's said, seeing in her eyes that she has him figured out already. And before he finishes nodding, she is stepping out of his side, and his arm has lost all consideration, letting her go without holding on too tightly.

He hears her call for lights up, and then he follows behind her.

"Tea?"

Deanna has disappeared, and he cannot see her at all but for the sound of her voice calling to him, his eyes fix on all the desolation he has come upon.

"No, thank you,"

He calls back distractedly, and the doors shut behind him as he regards the plates, pads and various articles of clothing strewn about the place. There are books piled up on the single armchair facing away from him, and to his right her desk is almost completely hidden beneath a stack of unassembled bits of furniture; nothing is the same balance of energy as it was before.

A deep sigh escapes him at the state of it all, confused as to why Beverly had not mentioned this to him, or why Deanna herself has not considered to apologise for it in the way he might have expected from her.

She reemerges to find him frozen there, and she had been in the bathroom by the sound of the flushing system and her wringing hands.

"A seat then?"

Deanna moves to lift the stack of books, and he just now can move in haste, seeing that she struggles to hold them out in front of her stomach. A quiet noise of protest goes unheeded as he takes the stack from her and drops it down to the floor beside the chair, standing now between two sofas, one presumably laid out in a spot she sits in often, the cushions built up and a woven blanket laid out along its length.

He turns to sit down himself, and can only assume she does the same as he hears her hiss softly, stifle a groan, and when he is situated and facing her again, he sees that same discomfort on her face as she shuffles a pillow at her back.

Her legs are tucked beneath her, and she reaches now to cover them up with the blanket.

A shiver chases along her spine.

"I take it you want to ask me about Ensign Tralk?"

She opens diplomatically, and if he were any less of a man then he might finding himself cursing the bluntness of her, when she used to be such a sharpened tack to him.

"Why I stopped you from helping?"

Shock registers on his face, but she only looks tired.

"I'm right then, you _did_ stop me?"

She nods back, gazes into him as though he isn't even there at all - and at the look in her eyes, she might not be either.

"I did, yes,"

Deanna tells him calmly.

"But you do not know how?"

She dips her head.

"You think that I'm keeping something from you?"

"I'm not proud of it Counselor, but I do, I have concerns,"

Picard responds just as calmly, and still ashamed of the thought that he is losing his confidence in her trust of him, that maybe she does not think of him anymore.

"I am nothing special, Captain,"

She breathes.

"Nothing has changed,"

Certainty leaves her, but refuses to find rest in his stomach, churning round and round her emphasis.

"But how?"

He still pushes at the point, and she smiles now briefly for the sight of an impatient child within him.

"I had fear, and I gave it you,"

The emphasis is plain, and it still refuses to work with him.

"How?"

Suspicion reiterates. The smile falls away from her gently.

"In the same way that I have to shield myself from others, I am shielding them also,"

Picard frowns.

"On Betazed, minds are free to wander, but Humans are not so free, and I must have caution - it would be too easy to hurt another just as I can be hurt by them,"

"You never said,"

"I thought it would be obvious,"

He has not lessened his frown, but a sadness accompanies it now, and he is not so much indignant as he had been before coming upon her. It seems she has this way to her, that means he never can be mad for long before she turns his perception around; he can't be sure if she does this on purpose to save herself, or by nature to save him.

"Every action,"

Deanna states wistfully, and the crease in his brow lifts as he understands finally what she means, though maybe this makes nothing better at all.

"But it was like a wall, for me and for Tralk, I saw it,"

He works out aloud, sorting the memory now in regards to the physicality, removed from the feeling.

"You did something to him too,"

And that feels too much like an accusation, even to him.

Deanna moves her legs a little beneath her body, and holds her hands steady, at a loss for where to rest them, until something in her finally gives in and they fall against her stomach.

Her reluctance brings him back to why he first wanted to find her.

"I warned him about that, and I apologised for my actions, but that was warranted in the situation,"

She tells him, defensively almost.

"What was?"

Picard shuffles forward in his seat, nervous, holding his arms out straight between his open legs, itching to get out of this uniform after such a long day.

"You saw me put myself in his mind,"

She sniffs, no emotion behind her tired eyes.

"I had been taking his mania for him, so that he had clarity, but it was too much and I lost my hold on him,"

With a brief and perhaps fearful hand, she runs fingers past where she had been injured, not even daring to put pressure on the area, and the hand comes to rest in her lap, supporting the underside of her stomach.

"That was when he hurt me, but it wasn't his fault,"

"And then?"

The Captain pushes, ignorant now in his curiosity to how she is uncomfortable talking about her mind, explaining herself to somebody who's biology will never understand what it is to be so open, to constantly need control.

"Then? I gave him words, I do not think I could do it again,"

She is softly shaking her head.

"So that was you who told me to call security?"

He asks, but really, he already knows the answer.

Deanna nods thoughtfully, the direction of her shaking head now changed, and he watches how all the low light gets caught up in her hair, then thrown out in a million different directions.

But he is still not satisfied.

"This will all be in the report Captain,"

She begins, almost as though she is chiding him for focusing on these things he maybe doesn't care so strongly about anymore. Of course she had felt him, his conspiracy, when he had spoken earlier with Beverly; so usually calm, she had been woken abruptly by his outburst, like waking from a nightmare that hadn't ended.

"You wanted something else,"

Picard sighs in frustration, that she knows how he feels better than even he does, but he has to wonder now if she actually desires the talent, or seeks to know him, or rather that his feelings are something that he has a duty to shield her from, but is too crude to know how.

"Yes,"

He responds bluntly, looking around to distract himself with how little of the floor he can see, how it smells like some kind of antiseptic cream he might have used once, how there is an accumulation of stuff that cannot have taken long to build up. It mustn't have done, Will would have cleaned before he moved back to his own quarters.

"I just,"

His eyes focus back on her.

"I had no idea you were living this way,"

Softness has become of his voice, and he wants to be whispering, feels like it's necessary now that he's maybe taking himself beyond his purview. But he could curse aloud again, because isn't this just his duty too? And maybe this is just what he owes her.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He asks her, suddenly hurt that she has been keeping her pain from the people who care for her, when the whole point of her remaining on board was to be with them. Second thoughts come at him for not the second time, hurling all the words he dare not say aloud, right back into his face, like they are poison

"Because there is nothing to tell,"

Deanna refuses to look around the space too, knowing she lies, and so she fixes him with such a look that says she knows of these thoughts he has, hopes to distract him in them.

He huffs at her, rolls his eyes even though he doesn't want to; a child's terror is made of him.

"You can't really believe that,"

His voice levels in sympathy.

"You know better than me that this isn't the mark of a healthy mind,"

Arms lift to gesture at the space around him, and he regards it once more, leaving where her eyes continue to penetrate his own; still the girl says nothing at all.

"You're withdrawing from your friends Deanna, _since Will_ , you're not looking after yourself, you won't talk to Beverly or myself, Data says you haven't been to a poker night in weeks,"

Picard says emphatically, drawing his hands in and counting up on his fingers the points he makes, letting them stretch back as a silence stretches on that she does not have words to fill. All of a sudden, after everything, after all this time, for just one moment, she is graceless.

"This is more than just a broken heart isn't it, it's more than Will?"

Deanna manages a slight nod in response, but it is weak, and tired, and speaks of a warning that he should not go _there_. There are fireworks in her heart, because she is so very far from home.

"Please,"

He says, and leans forward as though he is praying to her, hands now palmed together in front of his face.

"Tell me how to help you,"

Her eyes shut over from him, and her hair mussess about her face as she starts to gently shake her head again, unable to backtrack far enough.

"I am fine Captain, really,"

And her voice is so convincing, the look in her eyes when she opens them back up so honest, that he is lost there, moments from caving in to her will. But he is just strong enough to stand up to it, and he refocuses back on what he had wanted to say, unmoving in his seat.

"You know I don't believe that,"

He says, breathes to steady himself.

"Beverly calls it _rape_ , Deanna, and I know you must too,"

The words are terribly risky, and they are raw, full of an unsavoury taste. He has never had to say the word aloud before, never had a reason to really mean it, thinking that the world had come so far as to remove the act completely. But he'd been naive, and he knows it; of all the times he's thought about what he would do if it happened to one of his crew, he never even considered it would happen to _her_.

"Please - do not,"

Deanna begs, but he will not hear it.

"And Will, he says you're traumatised, that he's seen it too,"

The girls squirms in her seat, uncomfortable in her mind now, feeling that it has turned against her too. No matter how she tries to signal for him to stop, he cannot, and so she pulls her eyes from his and focuses on the one cleared space of floor beneath the coffee table, intent that a black hole will open there and finally swallow her up - a perfect mirror to what swallows her inside.

"Me? I think I call this depression Deanna, and you're really starting to scare me,"

Picard tells her, vulnerable, a waver barely detectable in his voice.

Writing her story is not at all like people would think, it is not about a woman who loves deeply and profoundly, even when it is hard: it is a story about a girl who finds it hard now to reconcile love with anything, one who wants people to think the best in her, even if it is not true.

He listens to what people say, and they have their expectations of her, they talk about how _forgiving_ it is to carry the child, how they would expect nothing less of her. They have it all wrong, of course, and looking at her now, he knows that this is an appearance that she is struggling against, struggling to maintain. She is trying hard to make them believe it, but she does not have it in her to try _too_ hard.

"Please say something,"

Deanna blinks, her eyes are shining and he wonders if this is because he is awash in terrible sadness, as though it simply lives now in the very walls.

"I do not know what you want me to say, sir,"

She responds, breaking herself off from the compassion he holds, alienating herself further for the sake of keeping a hold on her sanity, the things which force her to move forward. If she was to tell him anything now, it's likely she would stand still for the rest of her life, caught up in the shock.

"Dammit Deanna! Why are you doing this to yourself, why won't you let me talk to you?"

He bursts out, but she remains hauntingly silent, professional despite the hour and the location and the shiver that is creeping again up her spine.

"Please, just stop,"

Deanna asks him, a break in her voice.

"No, I will not! I care for you more than I think is normal, and I don't want to let this happen to you, so tell me that you're traumatised, or depressed, or even just scared to death and I will do everything I can to help you, but do not shut me out, not now,"

Picard tells her passionately, shuffling further to the edge of his seat, closing the gap so that he is suspended, almost, over the centre of the coffee table, willing her to say anything at all.

"Am I underperforming in my duties?"

She asks calmly, numbly even.

"Am I a discredit?"

Confusion renders him unable, for just a moment, to respond.

"Because unless you have reason to believe that I have become ineffective, then I really don't believe-"

" _Mierde_ Deanna!"

HIs voice comes out much more explosively than he had intended, and even she seems to become startled by the intrusion.

"Why aren't you angry? Why won't you fight back?"

Picards asks her in the same way; a change occurs of the space.

In a whole series of movements, she is standing up in front of him, body swaying only a little in fabric that is now like a veil which conceals her from him, not quite angelic.

"I do not want to fight with you Captain, please,"

She fixes him with a look that says _enough_.

"I think you should leave,"

The fabric billows when she moves from the sofa and slowly across the room, picking unsteadily through the mess of floor until she reaches the replicator, and stops.

"I'm not leaving, not until you talk to me about this, not until I know you're safe on your own, otherwise _I_ would be derelict in my duties,"

Picard says, standing too to face where she has turned her back on him, so that he cannot see her face at all, he has no idea what emotion -if any - is there.

"I am fine Captain, please just go,"

There are tears in her voice, somehow, after all this time.

"You were raped Deanna, I see that now, I know you're not _fine_ ,"

"Please,"

She whines, like a child come from nowhere, a dragged out word which speaks volumes more than any hundred others could ever.

"I do not want to talk about that,"

The Captain then moves more closely towards her figure, and she is hunched slightly by the wall, arms ending in petite fists at her sides.

"You have to, you aren't well and you need to talk about it before this gets any worse,"

"No!"

She snaps.

"Stop it, please, just stoh-"

The breath gets caught right in her throat, and she bucks forward, one hand rushing to hold flat-palmed against the wall to support her.

"Deanna?"

Picard calls to her, almost by her side now, and the sound of her breathing deeply is burning in his own chest as if the air were his own.

The girl's other hand is gripping the underside of her stomach, and she is leaning forward around it, hair obscuring her face as she turns down to stare at the floor.

"Nothing,"

She shakes her head and looks sideways and up at him, from beyond all that hair; her eyes are red now with tears.

"It is nothing, I'm fine,"

Deanna offers, flushed and low voiced, telling a lie he is growing tired of hearing.

Still, her grips appears iron, and the wall is holding her up where she pushes her body straight armed out from her, eyes turning back to the ground and scrunching tightly.

She swallows.

"You're in pain,"

Picard states dumbly, dipping his head to look through all those curls and to her face, creasing himself up in concern.

"Do I call Beverly?"

He asks desperately, but she shakes her head along with the swaying of her hips, so that she is in motion like an ebbing tide.

"No,"

Deanna looks back to him, fixes him with one solid look of crying eyes, and a moan leaves her, knees buckling one drop beneath her, and she is tense all over.

"I am always in pain, Captain,"

She is lit up with rare honesty, and this might be the only answer he can get out of her tonight. He reaches out to touch her shoulder, unafraid now after how closely they have joined their bodies all day, how often he has had a hand on her and not felt like an intrusion.

"You can leave now,"

Deanna tells him, still looking up, still breathing steady and swaying, grimacing a pain he cannot fathom the source of - though he has his suspicions.

He says nothing, because there are no words to express how much he _doesn't_ want to leave that don't express how much he _does_ at the same time, a terrible nobility he is caught between.

"Go,"

She draws out, desperation in her voice, and she jogs her legs to bounce a little at the knees, wanting more than anything to be alone with this again. But he is looking at her so intensely, noticing more of her eyes than just their colour, but the anxious creases around them, the purplish hue beneath, the shining trails of tears, like glitter, that refract all the light as they trace a path to her chin.

There is something black and smudged at the corner of her left eye.

"I never leave a crying woman Counselor, not when she's hurting,"

Picard tells her softly, and he hears her sniff around her tears, watches another grimace where her knees continue to dip a rhythm he can't follow; she does too much for him to possibly follow, but moves very little at all.

And then, she has nothing left in her to plead with him, or to give him any kind of answer at all, no idea if he wants the truth or something beautiful instead; she has neither inside her to give.

She is both vulnerable, and invincible, and nothing of either at all.

The Captain moves up closer to her body, peeling her hand away from the wall and holding it instead against his uniformed chest, like it is his feather crest, letting her lean her weight on him instead, so that there is something there at last with the ability to ground her. Deanna's body is more malleable than he imagines it ought be, and she does not protest the move at all, just allows herself like a ragdoll to be positioned into him, as if he is more than all the words he had said minutes ago.

He holds both of his hands over her own against him, so that she cannot pull away, and it's like he's saying grace - praying to her as though she is his own personal messiah.

When she looks up again, and now into his eyes, her hair falls away down her back along with the gravity that manipulates it; they are puffy, red and bruised, and terribly empty of anything he might call emotion.

The sight is an iron fist that holds his stomach tightly in suspension.

She wants to straighten out her body, but this stoop she holds up herself with is the only way to breathe, to carry her stomach like it is a separate entity, to lift to weight from her back for just a little while without having to lie down and leave her legs like electric wires, jumping the current that animates them.

The tip of her nose is red too, a drop at it's end, and she sniffs harshly again, not able to look anywhere but in his eyes.

"Please,"

Picard says, finally, removing a hand from above her own to run the back of his first two fingers over the apple of her cheek, and it is not hot at all.

"I just want to make it okay,"

And he's just a child who cares too deeply for one who he cannot understand anymore now than the day they met, who tries so hard and not hard enough, who is constantly collecting the flowers at her feet, then throwing them back at her face.

Her response is something guttural, a cry or a groan or even something that was intended as a scream but leaves more like something of loss, a sound that is broken and crackling like it has been lost in translation, like it means less than it was meant to.

It is followed by a complete reversal of what has been holding her away from him, and she collapses along with the loss, into his arms now, with one pressed up between their bodies, and the other hanging around his neck, just trying to keep herself on her feet and not lost beneath this ocean that laps around her ankles.

It is not a struggle to hold her up, but it knocks the breath out of him with how suddenly she has sunk into his body, so he wriggles free his arm and wraps them both securely around her back, lifting just slightly to stop her sinking any further. And her stomach is this obtrusion between them, hard and pushing into his own so that he can feel the movements, as if they were his own, when the child kicks out in protest of all the things it cannot control.

He tries to adjust her, to not allow himself to push with such force that she is in pain, but it is impossible without letting her simply fall down, and all he can do is hold on with the hope that it is enough.

There is a murmuring in his neck, and it takes him too long to realise that she is trying to tell him something, trying to reiterate the very reason that her knees are too weak to hold her up alone.

"Please, help me,"

He hears her say, and feels it more so in the vibration of her body against his.

"I'm scared, I'm so scared,"

She repeats then, again and again until he isn't sure if it's just his imagination thinking she has finally given up on her rhetoric, or the more terrifying outcome that he had wanted but been unprepared for - that she is _done_ with it too.

"Tell me how to make it okay?"

Picard asks her again, his voice more clear from above her head where his own chin rests, and he is desperate to be given an answer.

But she doesn't have one, not for herself and not for him, shaking her head against him like it will shake away the desperation, even when she knows it will not.

Then, he swears he hears her voice, but there is no vibration and no disturbance in the room, no uttering in his ears where he strains to listen. Somehow, her voice is in the walls, and in her body just as it is in his own, a final thought, a final passing effort to make him hear her, a swan song.

 _You cannot_.


	32. The Remains

Authors Note:

Sorry for the delay in getting this one up, but with some things going on in the world at the moment, it made me wonder if I should keep writing on this one. It was pointed out to me recently that it could seem as though I'm monopolising on an experience I don't really have a right to, considering the quite heavy subject matter this fic delves into.

I'm a boy, so for me to be assuming the responsibility of this kind of experience in this way without really addressing it has been entirely remiss of me and I'd like to apologise.

I'm in complete awe constantly of all the women in my life, and I wouldn't be half the person I am today without them.

So with that, I'd like to say that rape, abortion and motherhood are all incredibly serious topics, none of them nearly as fictional as I've made them seem and as I wish certainly that some were.

If you've read my story and feel affected by it, or if you feel isolated because of any experience you've had in common with any of the characters written about, then please reach out to the people close to you, reach out to the helplines and the refuge's that exist in your areas, reach out and do not recede, I'm certain you're absolutely more capable of rising above than you think.

And now on with the story, my usual thanks to the people out there willing to read, your reviews are as always greatly appreciated.

* * *

She wakes with no recollection of how she ever could have fallen asleep, or really what she has done with the memory of _yesterday_.

It has disappeared into that ever growing black-hole.

Her body is sore somehow, and her eyes feel puffy when she tries to blink them open and alert, something caught over the eyelid of her left.

She sniffs, and her nose is sore too, turns her head to the side in search of the time, and even her skull throbs against the movement.

Something must have left her body last night that she cannot define, but the loss does not seem to have made her any lighter than before, instead, it is as though all the energy simply drained out from her body.

The clock tells her it's almost midday, and if she knew what time she had fallen asleep, then this maybe would be more shocking, but for all she can recall she might only have been asleep for 20 minutes.

By the way her mind is so foggy, it is probably much longer.

Beside the clock she notices a stack of pads that had not been there before - she thinks but cannot be sure - and a gentle curiosity has her trying to resurrect herself, untangling all her heavy limbs from the blankets and the pillows she is cradled by.

She sits up to a sharp pain in her stomach, a hazy memory of some injury there that she cannot yet recall, and a tired hiss escapes her clenched teeth.

A hand reaches cautiously for the pads, and there are four all in a stack that fits just barely between her thumb and forefinger as she tries to lift them over to her. They sprawl out beside her on the mattress, and one of them is lit up more brightly than the others, so she brings it up to her face to read.

 _Deanna_ ,

It says, in bold letters along the header:

 _I hope you're feeling better today. I apologise for my intrusion last night, and trust this message will find you well. Please don't feel embarrassed for what happened, I'm glad at least I was able to be there._

 _Consider these amendments a form of reparation for how I have been misunderstanding, but do not attempt to argue they aren't necessary, I have already made my decisions._

She frowns and scrolls further down the page.

 _Be sure to visit Beverly when you wake, I've asked her not to come by so early where she can avoid it, you seem like you need the extra rest._

 _Also, Mr Data and I will be visiting you this evening to help with cleaning up and putting together the furniture you've been struggling with - no arguments, it's the Captain's prerogative._

A lazy, suspicious smile comes upon her face, and she scrolls the rest of the way to the bottom of the page, his signature clear and crisp on the light background. His handwriting is delightful, and terribly French of him, the name _Jean-Luc_ written in sweeping and tightly curled lettering, followed by a large _P_ and a flow of rushing ink in slanted mountain range peaks.

She sets the pad to her left side, then reaches for the first of the three remaining on her right, sceptical now of what these others might hold.

It lights up in all the same shades of a very _official_ looking document.

 _Under special permission from Ship's Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Counselor Deanna Inara Troi, Rank: Lieutenant Commander, is granted indefinite release from adherence to Starfleet Uniform Standards as outlined in protocol 61B, on account of exceptional medical circumstances, effective immediately._

The memory of her melted uniform tunic, and the smell of the flesh that had melted too rapidly overcomes her senses, a piece of the puzzle returned to her. Maybe he does not want to relive this either.

She sighs, he's never really been strict about her uniform anyway, after seeing how that standard mini dress was far too revealing of any starfleet officer, especially when it hindered her in the way those kinds of garments do, and how distracted not only most of the male staff were, but the majority of the female too. It had only taken one conversation with him to have his agreement that maybe she ought to dictate her own uniform from then on, though maybe her choices had not been what he had in mind.

It's the collarbones, she thinks, but that is a _Betazoid thing_ , after all.

This pad is discarded also, a kind gesture, but maybe just a gesture. The next she picks up appears perhaps _more_ official, if it is possible, and at its header it is emblazoned with the starfleet seal; it even feels somehow heavier in her hand.

 _Alterations to the duty schedule of Counselor Deanna Inara Troi, rank: Lieutenant Commander, are as follows, by order of the Captain:_

She raises her eyebrows in shock, to nobody in particular, and wonders again just what must have occurred between them last night for him to start leaving concessions for her to wake up to - _was he even here at all_?

She shakes her head, scrolls down to the list of points, where the first reads:

 _The required minimum number of duty hours served weekly as sitting member of Bridge Staff is lifted, with attendance at the Counselor's own discretion._

A feeling emerges in her gut, but it is not strong enough to speak to how she really feels about _this_ , so she considers that maybe it is a good thing, and moves further down the list.

 _Deadline extensions of up to 24 hours are added to the submission of staff, evaluatory, and incident reports, including special permissions in dictation of reports, as well as reports submitted up to 100 characters beneath standard requirements._

Again, she swallows, and has to admit that perhaps this is a good thing, being that her paperwork has been starting to pile up lately with how very little she seems to be able to bring herself to care.

There is one final point listed:

 _Upcoming crew evaluations are to be conducted between Captain Picard and Counselor Troi with regards to senior crewmen only, and between Commander Riker and Counselor Moore with regards to those of Lieutenant grades or less._

A genuine smile comes upon her a second time, that he has considered how much of her time she truly has to spend with Will, in their duties as first officer and counselor. Then the smile falls away, that he believes she cannot continue normal duties because of a something so trivial as a broken heart.

She thinks maybe he had said something about this last night, but there is no sound of his voice there in her memory to tell her if this is the truth or not.

With tiring hands, she pushes this third pad onto the mattress on her left, joining the other two in a casual scattering, and she's almost certain she won't find a better place for them, let alone consider to recycle them later.

The final pad stares up at her, and she has to wonder what on Betazed is left for him to try to control of her life, what on Earth he could have thought of that will make her life _better_. Here is a word she can hear him say very clearly in her memory, along with the image of his sorrowful face.

She refocuses her eyes on the screen now in her hand.

 _Special Permission has been granted to Counselor Deanna Inara Troi, at the request of Captain Picard and Chief Medical Officer Beverly Crusher MD, that she be permitted a further 20 credits weekly for usage in the Deck 5 Crew Gymnasium swimming pool and Anti-Gravity Chamber, for reasons relating to personal health._

Anti-Gravity? She had not considered it before. Swimming yes, but she has yet to actually go, being that her body is so alien to her now she's no idea how to dress for it, or to reveal so much of herself when she is not confident in it.

It is a fair suggestion of the Captain though, that she spend time in zero gravity for the benefit of all these muscles that ache without end, and the alien itself, that has swallowed her centre so wholly that to hold it up is a painful task. But she hasn't told anybody this, surely, so how does he know?

What the God's had she _said_ last night?

Slowly, she engages her legs to stand, and the sudden pressure almost takes the air from her lungs, pushing down on her hips in such a way that gravity is now far too strong to battle against. She tilts forwards, blowing out a breath, then dips back upright again, flexing out her arms at her sides so that they come alive in the way that her legs struggle to.

Her bladder is suddenly very full, her body moving sluggishly through the space and towards the bathroom, scratching absentmindedly at the skin of her stomach.

She is clumsier than usual, taking longer than she used to, and she has not yet had enough time to get accustomed to this new routine, moving to wash her hands at the basin while she listens to the sound of rushing water as if it will lull her into a trance.

Then, she entertains a single moment of blank mindedness, and rubs away at her eyes with still wet hands, tries to clear the fog until she finally remembers the washcloth on the side of the basin and begins rubbing more purposefully at her whole face.

The reflection tells her she isn't who she used to be, tells her she's likely just as tired as she looks, tells her that even her usually red lips will not distract from how hollow she's become.

It is as if her body is not alive at all.

One arm reaches up to push a finger into the puffy skin beneath one of her eyes, then travels along and up to it's swollen lid, finding a sore growing along the inner line of her lashes.

She blinks at the reflection, then stares back down into the basin, moving routinely to set the cold water rushing and start wringing the washcloth in its flow. With more precision and pressure over the eye, she wipes at her face again, trying to cool the heat of the swelling skin while her other hand reaches above her head to open up the right side of the mirrored cabinet.

She finds what she is looking for quickly, a small tube of medicated eye drops on the lower shelf tucked right at the back, and she stretches up on her tiptoes to grab it, shutting over the cabinet again when she's done.

And here is another thing she can barely recall: how or why she even has the drops, when she ever needed them before now, who even gave them to her?

She imagines at least it must be have been Beverly, as she raises her head back and lets three drops loose into an eye she struggles to hold open - but when had she seen Beverly about her eyes?

Tipping her head forward causes a sudden and blinding dizziness to take her, and she reaches out to grip the basin again, dropping the bottle along with the movement.

She breathes deeply.

Perhaps it is best not to dwell on these things that she cannot recall.

Sickness then takes her, and almost as though it is routine too, she free's up the hand holding a cloth to her eye by dropping it to the floor too and hunches forward over the basin. She gives a meal up to it that she doesn't remember, with practiced control that stops her from spending too long coughing over the gag in her throat, and has her pulling her hair into a fist at the back of her head with one balled up hand.

It does not last for long, and soon enough she is able to stand firm and release the curls to fall along her back, running more water to start rinsing out her mouth with, reaching out again for her toothbrush.

She considers only briefly that maybe she ought to collect what she dropped, but bending down doesn't seem like too good an idea, and her protruding stomach stops her from even seeing where they have landed about her feet.

The morning then goes on ahead of her, following much the same routine as any other morning, even knowing how the hour must by now have crept past midday.

The computer tells her she has no appointments scheduled until the evenings restorative justice session - _already?_ \- and then goes on to issue her three different report deadlines, including something about an _incident report_ , though she isn't entirely sure what on.

She's pulling her dress off over her head when the image comes to her, with her eyes scrunched tight, of a blazing scalpel, and the feel of the Captain's mind straining against her own. It is not terribly clear, and the dress falls to the floor at the foot of her bed when she sees the bandaging taped over a spot on her stomach.

She must have been hurt worse than she remembers.

In only her underwear, she looks up and around, bewildered, trying to remember where her closet is. Something awful must have happened to have her brain this unresponsive.

Gracefully, somehow, she manages to undress completely as she walks to where she thinks there will be clothes, and opens up a door to find a chest of drawers beside a hanging rail adorned in all number of colourful gowns.

These she remembers well, each speaking to an occasion of its own. She cannot smile her fondness though, in the search for something to wear, because they would not fit her body as it is this way, and she is resigned to wearing things because they are _comfortable_ , and not because they are _beautiful_.

 _Drown oceans, Deanna_

She hears her father's voice echoing without her, somewhere in the distant past, so far away it could just be a dream.

 _If anyone can, it's you_

And she sighs, slipping a loose fitting shift over her head, because she never looked at any ocean she couldn't outrun until she saw herself like this.

She forgoes underwear, because she _is_ Betazoid after all, the dress flowing almost down to her feet with really no need, given that her body is young and pert and _sore_ , and largely without need for support, the only exception being her stomach.

Somewhere in her quarters, discarded on the floor, she is almost certain there is some kind of band that is designed to solve that problem, but she had too much trouble trying to work the thing out on her own that it had been forgotten very quickly.

Deanna breezes through the space, and it smells like her own body, naturally fragrant and yet antiseptic of late, but there is a must lingering by the sofa as she passes it by, and the scent of recollection catches her off-guard. Picard is suddenly sitting like a ghost on the cushions, leaning into the table as if he is saying a prayer, completely translucent, full of all the feelings and none of the body, not so much himself as he is a fingerprint.

The image comes and goes in less than a second, and she breathes deeply again - so he must have been here last night.

She finds herself turning to her desk monitor, where it is just barely visible behind a stack of furniture pieces, and switching it into life, unable to take a seat because it is overrun in discarded clothes. The time glares at her in the unchanged light of her quarters, and only now does she consider turning them brighter, if only to startle her sore eyes into staying awake.

She takes an absent moment to wonder if they are still as swollen as when she had woken.

"Computer, lights to 50 percent,"

And even her own voice shocks her a little, because this is the first and only sound she has really paid attention to in the space, harsher and rougher - maybe for the same reason as her eyes are so sore.

The room lights up, and she has to squint against it before refocusing on reading through her messages. There are the usual patient reports sent in by her staff that take up the first two pages, then there is a ship's status update that calls her attention.

 _Crewmen be informed that, upon departing company with friendly Klingon Vessel, Enterprise enters a course of return to the USS Tiberius, following which the mission of patrol along the Neutral Zone is resumed. Arrival to Tiberius in: 0 hrs and 13 mins._

Somersaults suddenly take over her stomach - transfer anxiety - and she takes a second to remember why this alarms her.

Will.

Her mind lands on his name like a deadweight, though she tries her hardest not to dwell, not to open herself out and reach for him now that he is much nearer than before. She closes the message, tries to focus instead on remembering who their visitors had been, sure that she can remember her entire life with complete clarity up until that point.

 _I wish to tell you something Deanna, something which I tell my son_

She can hear him speaking to her as though he is at her back, but knows this is now impossible.

 _Do not live your life with one foot in the ocean, and the other on dry land, constant to neither_

And there is talk of the ocean again, and she lets a shiver take her spine as she turns off the terminal, wondering if she has begun to fixate on these things that carry her away in the way the ocean does too. She cannot be sure, but the memory of her father telling her to drown it, and somebody else's telling her not to, surely cannot be a coincidence.

Her feet pick carefully over to the replicator, full of mixed signals, and maybe this is just a reflection of her own indecision. Something tells her that maybe she does want the child, as if out of nowhere, and she shuts it down with an immediate second thought, unsure if this is the message she is being sent.

Without real thought or appetite, she scrolls down the breakfast selection, remembering how all those weeks ago she had no indecision at all.

She had lied openly to Beverly, to Will and to the Captain, telling them she had made her decision when she had not, hours after sitting alone with a mug of tea as Will slept in _her_ bed for the first time in years, meditating over the skill she knew she possessed. It does not bear thinking about now, not when the child is large and moving and impossible to consider removing any other way than _alive_.

It kicks her sharply in the ribs, and she considers instead that maybe it is made from blades, giving in and picking out an old Betazoid breakfast that is usually for children - she is in the mood for something which will bring her back more fond memories than she has.

A plate materialises, and it is something that has been beyond Beverly's reach, something which tastes almost exactly as if it was home cooked, and not of all the individual atoms it is compiled of.

Really, it is too much to ask of herself to partake with joy, anymore, when she spears the top of a pastry dome with her fork, spearing another memory along with it. This time, she is just a girl, and it is exactly what she had hoped for.

She's walking away from the replicator when she freezes in one spot, becomes herself another memory of more forgotten things.

There are arms keeping her up, for a split second, and suddenly the stinging in her eyes makes more sense, the sound of her own tears garbled in her ears. It leaves before she can find any one single voice, and she has to sit down lest she fall.

The armchair that smells like _him_ is closest, and she lowers herself down with one hand on its arm and the other holding the plate level in front of her, trying to remain steady when it is an impossibility.

Cushions welcome her, but they are not nearly enough support to lean back on, so she finds herself sitting more squarely on its edge with the plate now resting over her middle, where the child crests.

Taking a bite from the centre of the pastry, the memory at last leaves her completely until she is steady, and more able to focus on the way ooda berry jam explodes into her mouth, along with chips of chalav and ripe shezif, all the flavours of a childhood much missed.

Children like it because it is sweet, and she swallows down, appreciating it now as an adult, because it is tart - such is the nature of perception.

She looks around herself now, expecting maybe to see a picnic blanket and a rolling field, but instead it is only the desolation of her own quarters, where the floor is overrun in things she cannot recall leaving there. She cannot even consider how she had ever let it get on top of her this way, being so usually neat.

Is this the mark of a healthy mind?

She swallows tightly again, having forgotten to replicate a drink, because this is not her question. A hand balances the plate while her other rubs harshly against her eyes again, where they itch a little still but are not quite so puffy as before.

There isn't an answer to this question that she can think of now that she couldn't think of when she was first asked.

Her hand travels back to take another forkful of food, and already the sight of it has begun to trouble her, already it is filling her stomach where its capacity is diminished. She chews and swallows anyway, listening to a thousand different times her own mouth has told another about the importance of having a good relationship with food, about how simple it is to slip into a neurosis without noticing.

She swallows a second time, then sets the plate down on the table, thinking maybe it is too late to try to stop.

Then, she is confronted with a decision she isn't sure how to make, being that she has nowhere to be for a while: what is she to do with her day? If she stays in her quarters then she'll only stew here, only end up being accused of _retreating_ again, and this time she hears Picard's voice accusing her of the same thing.

Sitting becomes tiresome, so she stands abruptly and looks around, nothing to really do here anyway, her eyes searching the space for that comm badge she never can recall taking off.

Something gleams at her across the room, from the bench beneath the viewport, behind a scattered cushion and a sheet of flat pack instructions she never bothered to read. A strange place for it to end up, she thinks, but does not dwell.

It chirrups just as she reaches out to grab it up, after crossing the room, and she hears a familiar voice in the space.

"Crusher to Troi,"

She hesitates.

"Deanna are you there?"

A jittery finger pushes down on the metal.

"Yes, Beverly, hello,"

Even to herself her voice sounds strained still, hurried and distracted all in one space.

"Sorry am I interrupting something?"

The doctor sounds concerned, the voice growing louder as she pins the badge gently to the thicker fabric over her chest.

"No not at all, I was just - eating,"

Deanna reasons aloud, throwing a guilty look back at the rest of her breakfast, self-conscious all of a sudden that she is policed, even in her own quarters. It is likely that the Doctor was sent an alert the second her replicator whirred into motion, such is the concern.

"Is everything okay, you were supposed to come back into sickbay this morning?"

The voice is a further extension of this concern, and it is harder to hide than she thinks. All it takes is a moment of no response for Beverly to go on asking questions.

"Did you only just get up?"

Deanna makes a fast decision about what is _healthy_.

"I'm sorry, I should have called you, I've had so many reports to approve and send off, I must have let time get away from me."

The lie is unusually crisp, and flows much better than her voice had before, not so harsh now, more purposeful.

She feels immediately that Beverly believes it, but there is another issue at hand.

"Well, I'm getting a request through from a Doctor Schreiber aboard the Tiberius, he's… he's _heard_ about you Deanna, says he can help."

The girl has to take a sharp breath, unsteady, not having realised they were here, that the Enterprise had yet dropped out of warp. Outside the viewport window, though, the stars are standing still.

" _Help_?"

She echoes.

"He's an research focused OB-GYN, he specialises in -"

On the end of the line she hears Beverly pause, then there is a noise like shuffling feet and voices becoming distant, until a door shuts closeby.

"- in inter-species fetal development."

Deanna sighs aloud, knowing that the woman will hear, waiting for a thought to occur to her that is not coloured white hot in sudden and blinding rage.

"You know that I do not want to become a _spectacle_ , Doctor,"

She says at last, rubbing a hand over her forehead for the ever-changing mood of this strange day, then she turns to walk over to the replicator for some water at last, now that there is an ache behind her eyes.

"He really seems like he can help me out here, Deanna,"

Beverly says hopefully, and there is another pause as the replicator whirrs into existence a tall glass, and somebody else's voice speaks, much further away.

 _Please, tell me how to help you,_

But still, she isn't sure that it really belongs to him.

"Yes - yes, fine,"

Deanna blurts finally, just as she feels the Doctor is about to send another - weaker - argument. She picks up the certain rush of joy, though it is coloured with dread.

"But I am not a _rat_ , Beverly, please make sure he knows this,"

She adds, taking a sip from the top of her glass, using the time to wonder for a moment how this new Doctor has heard about her.

Whatever she may feel towards the man, she doubts very much it was _Will_.

"Excellent,"

Crusher responds, ignoring her comment so brusquely, a relieved smile quite clearly in her voice.

"I'll let him know he's free to beam aboard anytime, make sure you come in this afternoon, Crusher out,"

She rambles, in a hurry to make preparations, to _show off_ \- perhaps he is an _important_ man, and Deanna just has no idea.

The connection cuts off, and she has no chance to say anything back, to maybe remind her again that she is not to be experimented on, and nor is this _new_ Doctor to take over her care, now that she is comfortable with Beverly finally.

She breathes out harshly, these four walls just about the only space where she trusts herself to do so, her knees feeling weak again; she thinks she may never get the balance right.

Will has not returned to the ship yet, and for this she is thankful, taking another drink of water to quell the rising pressure in her head after having opened out her mind to find him.

After all this time, she still can't seem to let go of him, she's never been able to even when it is just so easy for him to do. She had been warned - her mother, even Mr Homm, and _gods_ , she ought to have listened when they told her it was a burden - to be _Imzadi_.

But at the time, she had thought finally that there was something _special_ inside her, something that wasn't another handicap, something that the rest of Betazed could look up at her for, and not down.

She doesn't hate her home, but they never had much love for her blood.

Being Imzadi, she understands now, does not make her _special_ , if anything it invites pity, for how little control fate has given her over her heart.

And at least she can control her mind.

She takes another gulp of water, then lets the glass down heavily back in the replicator shelf, the only spare surface left anymore, closing up her mind like it is a glass dome - she can see out so clearly to who is there, but she cannot hear a single word they say.

Everybody is no longer three dimensional, they are flat faces with barely any colour to tell them apart, and she hates to have to do it to herself, but lately, it is necessary.

A thought takes her, that maybe this _Schreiber_ will be able to help her after all, just as a sudden spasm sends a stab of pain in the right side of her stomach, and she is forced to double against the wall for support.

She winces, and suddenly, her stinging eyes make sense.

 _I'm scared, I'm so scared_ ,

The sound is stuck in her throat along with a cry that she has been holding in for the sake of nobody at all. A hand reaches for beneath her stomach, and that stabbing pain returns, catches her off-guard, and the cry dislodges.

 _Tell me how to make it okay,_

She takes a deep breath in through her nose as she has been taught to do, holds it until there is not so much pain as before, then lets it out slowly when she is stabbed for a third time. This pattern goes on for a little while longer, a few minutes, she loses track of time, trying to follow along with this pattern whilst holding back the full force of recall.

 _I never leave a crying woman Counselor,_

And she is sure now of exactly what had transpired of the night before she woke, how each of the words he had said had been so poorly aimed, how she had been absent until she wasn't, how everything beyond that is not _worth_ remembering. She still cannot quite recall what had happened to lead her from his arms and into her own bed, but something tells her that this is a memory she will never get back at all.

Picard had been all that she has missed in Will, and none of it all, for at least 3 seconds she had felt completely secure, and then adrift, like something of emotional whiplash she has never felt within her own mind before.

Finally, she is able to breathe deeply one last steadying time, and push herself away from the wall to stand straight, the pain forgotten in all this pensive thought.

 _I am always in pain Captain,_

She swallows, blinks her opening eyes, then tries to remember what it was she was thinking about all those minutes ago. There is a sting in the skin on the other side of her stomach.

 _Sickbay_.

Reluctantly, she goes in search of underwear, bothering only for the sake of a stranger who she does not know, a _man_ , even, who her gut is telling her she ought be wary of.

For all the mess on the floor, she can say one thing, and that is that there is no single pair of stray panties anywhere, given that she has had to replicate some for the first time, now that all she seems to do is spend time in the company of doctors, and people of very different customs.

Her mother would be aghast, she's sure, to find her now concealing herself in this way, given that it perhaps remains as her final form of liberation - though maybe that is going too far.

On her way back from the closet, she does a double take of her reflection, only now considering that she ought to do something about her eyes. They are now only perhaps a little bloodshot, and itching still, but the swelling is down to nought but a puffiness that hangs a crescent moon of fatigue beneath them both, and she is satisfied that she looks just about as casual as she always does.

A red lipstick tube stares at her - she has not worn any for a long time.

She does not intend to start again now.

By the sound of her bare feet slapping against one exposed tile on the bathroom floor, she is forgetting something crucial, and it takes her until she is nearly to the corridor, to land on _shoes_.

No idea when she became so scattered, she backtracks to the living room to root out a pair of sandals that hide behind a sofa cushion, fairly certain she will be unable to accommodate heels any longer.

Then, finally, with shoes and her comm badge and only some of her faculties, she is at last leaving the safety that is her quarters, and out into an unknown that is now just a little scarier than before.


	33. Medicine

Author's Note:

The feedback you guys gave me on the last chapter was just amazing, I'm grateful people took the time to offer their opinions on what I had to say - I really appreciate it.

That being said, I'm always looking to hear more from my readers, so if you've any suggestions on where you want to see this story go, or if there's anything else you'd like to see me write about, then please do let me know in the comments, I'll be more than happy to see what I can do.

Without further ado - onto the story!

* * *

Beverly pushes something into her neck, and it is a very sudden rush of energy into the ends of all her fingertips, like she has been sleeping all the time she's been awake; a clearing fog in her mind beginning now to make sense.

She's no idea what it even is, so she'll just stick with _medicine_ , as it reminds her so much of any number of herbs she crushed, drank or inhaled in her youth, to pull open her mind and extract the pain.

It was her mother's suggestion, and she wishes she had that opportunity now again.

But Beverly, whose hands are so unlike her mothers, would likely not allow it, full of the prudishness of any human, with none of the liberty of her mother either.

"You should have been by earlier, God knows how you managed to concentrate on anything, let alone _paperwork_ ,"

Deanna nods along, not really engaging to say much herself, her eyes tracing Beverly's movements around her in the room - she appears distinctly nervous.

"I am sure you have nothing to be nervous about Doctor,"

She counters, not willing to dwell, and the woman turns around to regard her with a kink in her eyebrow.

"You can be really irritating at times, Troi, you know that?"

Beverly responds with jest, but it is clear that she is in fact fussing over the appearance of her Sickbay, flitting her eyes about the room before taking the tricorder from her pocket and moving again to the bedside.

There are a few moments of silence whilst she scans the girl, and all the beeping noises become irritating too, until it is shut over harshly, and the wand falls along with her arm at her side.

"I just don't want him to think we're running half a show here,"

 _Half a show_.

Deanna frowns more so to herself, never understanding enough of this ludicrous language to ever appreciate what is idiom and what is not - just so long as _she_ does not become part of any show.

"I do not believe anybody could ever judge you incompetent, Beverly, you have the most contemporary Sickbay in the fleet,"

She tries to soothe her nerves, then turns her eyes upwards to watch where the Doctor has begun to chew on the nails of one hand.

"This Doctor will be jealous of you, I am sure,"

She says certainly, a positivity made up in her voice that she does not truly feel, but the only way for this to go well, or to at least make sure Beverly is in her corner, is to have her as relaxed, as confident as possible. These feelings grow a little in the woman, along with a distinct gratitude.

The Doctor huffs out a breath, steadier.

"Listen to me,"

She shakes her head and her hair tousles in the ringlets she has cut it shorter into, bouncing around just above her shoulders in such a way that she might look younger if it weren't for all the lines in her face drawing up into a frown between her eyebrows.

"I should be asking how _you_ are, not complaining,"

Her eyes are so blue, but they are not blue like _his_ , and Deanna finds more grace somewhere inside herself to just smile, pretend like nothing is worth asking of her anyway.

"I am fine Beverly, you're not being a nuisance,"

She finds herself reassuring, but it seems that the doctor has moved on from this concern, and back into her role as a _doctor_ , and not a friend or a patient - it unsettles Deanna that she cannot share time with all three.

"Did you get enough sleep last night?"

Beverly asks her now, drawing the tricorder and wand back into action with two reanimated arms, focusing her right hand and it's flashing end around the crown of Deanna's head, where there are light hairs that have managed to escape confinement.

The question draws a blank in her, still full of missing pieces past the point where she had cried into her Captains embrace, not even sure when they had parted, let alone when she had found her way into bed. Maybe, he had even seen her there.

"I'm not sure,"

She hears herself say, then refocuses her eyes when she realises that was no kind of answer at all, looking up to Beverly again, though the woman seems too focused on her readings to consider it an inadequate answer.

"Well your psilosynine levels are still a little low after yesterday, but that's understandable,"

Crusher dictates, not really understanding much of _yesterday_ at all.

"Otherwise, your brain chemistry is actually very pleasing,"

She goes on, then looks back into Deanna's eyes, alarm in her own at how she maybe has made herself look like too much of a biology buff, and not enough of a caring physician. Deanna only smiles though, knowing all too well how the woman is engaged in a deep love affair with medicine, and thankfully, not just the _Human_ body.

She has seen doctors in the past who could not make sense of her mixed biology, called it a miracle of nature, or a freak - either way, it was enough to put her off.

Beverly focuses back on moving the wand down her body.

"I'm not happy with your heart rate though, it's very uneven, and your blood pressure is far too high for my liking -"

She says, pausing as she circles the wand over Deanna's stomach, a strange wonder coming about her.

"Baby seems completely healthy though, good blood flow, steady heart -"

"Mmmph,"

Deanna cannot help but groan when the child moves to adjust itself, kicking out its legs as it goes, like toes made from knives.

"Very active,"

The Doctor continues, smiling now, as if she has forgotten everything of inception and intent, using that part of her that is a mother to enjoy the reminder of when this had been her. She is so caught in that place, in fact, that she often fails to notice how Deanna does not seem to share the sentiment, does not have any joy for the movement that causes only pain in her tired body.

Beverly flips the tricorder shut, satisfied in her assessment.

"I guess you've been better than you are, but then you've also been _worse_ ,"

She says, tucking the tricorder into her coat pocket and pursing her lips as if she about to do some telling off, the demeanour of a disappointed parent, even, waiting at the root of her tongue.

"I'm getting tired of people bringing you in _hurt_ , Troi, you should be being more responsible now,"

She chastises, and Deanna's face is immediately softened into sorrow, not for herself, but for how Beverly still does not know how to put herself in the same shoes.

"I cannot stop doing my _job_ , just because of this,"

The girl is loath to say _pregnant_ , not really certain if that is how she would classify the experience, feeling all too often that she is not even herself anymore, that she has no control, that she is just a _vessel_ to be used.

Before Beverly can call her out however, there is a noise at the door to the private room, and she turns her whole body swiftly round to regard the Nurse who stands in the new opening.

"Dr Schreiber is here,"

He says urgently, as if they all have been briefed on his importance, on what he has to offer, and even his pointed ears cannot prevent a look of mild terror from filling his eyes as he waits for a response.

"Already?"

Beverly exclaims, then clears her throat and smooths out her coat, standing up a little straighter.

"Of course, of course, send him in,"

She tells the half-vulcan, who offers a clipped nod before disappearing back into main Sickbay, and it is as though Beverly has now completely forgotten that there is anybody else to consider of the room, that she has not yet asked if this is okay. Deanna makes no effort to smooth out her own dress, sure that at some point somebody will make her lift it anyway, and she fixes a sceptical smile to her lips.

It takes only a few seconds for her to understand why the Doctor is so flustered, when eventually a tall figure appears through the door. He is physically imposing, upon first glance, and the second shows her how he is perhaps older than he looks, with a well-groomed beard grown of greying hairs.

He is a blonde, with locks that part in the centre and fall almost to his ears, long all over, but still arguably well-kept; his eyes are blue, more noticeably like ice as he comes closer under the lights, and his jaw is a sharp square, as though it could cut glass.

"Dr Crusher, it's great to finally meet you, I've heard wonderful things,"

Schreiber says, extending a firm hand to the woman, with a voice that resounds from deep in his chest and reverberates in the space, authoritative, yet somehow made soft. The accent is strange, a peculiar blend of these places he has learnt the language from, different than his birthplace, but laced with it all the same. Something of America finds home between his two front teeth, but at the back of his throat there is the timber of England, charming, but twisted so that it does not remind her of the comforts she has come to know.

 _The industrious Germans_ , she has been told, and this seems to be the substance of the man.

"Please, call me Derrick, Doctor, can't stand the name Schreiber myself,"

He says with an almost too-wide grin, and there is a feeling deep within her mind that he is trying _too_ hard, doing _too_ much to please Beverly, for simple access to _her_.

Crusher nods along, infatuated with him and his endearing face, blind to a tingle of unrest that he has bred.

"So, ready to do some work?"

Derrick offers, peering around her head to where Deanna sits still, with her short legs hanging over the edge of the raised bed, hands folded now in her lap.

"Why has she not been changed into a gown yet?"

He asks in a lower voice, a more serious voice, maybe even a little flinch of irritation able to poke through his facade. Beverly seems again not to notice, and in an uncharacteristic way, she whispers back to him.

"You'll see, she's not exactly a model patient,"

They trade in conspiratorial smiles.

"Well alrighty then,"

Derrick moves briskly on and past Beverly, and he is unusually trim in the skin tight uniform, but Deanna refuses to be impressed by this, now that he is turning his work upon her.

"So Deanna - can I call you Deanna?"

He begins, and there is presumption in him that unnerves, greats on her.

"Counselor Troi is fine, Doctor,"

She tells him shrewdly, aware that he has taken no time to introduce himself to her individually, to consider her as a person and not a project. The man's lips then thin along with his widening eyes, and he draws out his next word like a child would, disguised only by the age of him.

"Sure,"

Then, a pause as Beverly catches up to them with curiosity, but the tension is recovered quickly, for her sake.

"So, _Counselor_ , I'm told you're quite the mystery, mind if I take a look?"

Derrick is asking, but not really taking permission before he reaches his hands up to either side of her neck, fingers pushing along all the muscles tensing there. All she can do is nod, a vague kind of movement given how he shifts his ministrations now to up under her jaw, feeling along the bones and sinewy tissue, for something she just can't fathom.

"Have you noticed any swelling in the cervical lymph nodes, Doctor?"

He asks, now still in his movements and heavy on her pulse, measuring it by the feel of what thrums there, looking not into her eyes at all, and rather over at Crusher who stands off-side slightly, as if she is a player in a game Deanna wishes not to play.

"Yes, actually, a week or so ago we had an issue with kidney infection, but it cleared up fairly quickly and there've been no recurrences so I'm hopeful we won't see another,"

Beverly explains, taking from his cue to speak of her as if she is not in fact in the room with them both, as if she is just a case study.

The man stops his counting, removes his fingers now from her to hold hands out in front of himself.

"Good, and this heart rate has been consistently thready since day -?"

"Uh, three,"

Crusher responds promptly.

"There's been issues regulating blood pressure too,"

She adds, and he hums a low response.

"Yes, I read through the files,"

The comment is only slightly passive aggressive, and comes out quiet enough that it does not reach her, but Deanna is bothered by it on her behalf, as he turns back to regard her face, not in any personal way but rather as though she is the subject of study.

It seems he is judging the symmetry, then without warning, he takes the pads of his thumbs to the orbits of her eyes, firmly pushing down on the bone,

She does not want to tell him that he hurts the skin there, because it is red already, and he ought really to know.

"And there have been no signs of facial palsy?"

Schreiber calls back, not looking away now as his fingers traverse along to the hollow cheeks, and the bones that hold scaffolding to her face, pushing with force enough that her head rocks along with the motions.

"None at all, thank God,"

The Doctor tells him, clearly relieved, but Deanna has no idea what this is supposed to mean.

"No neurological issues - seizures, migraines, that sort of thing?"

He continues to ask, reaching around now in a loop of her bones to the pits at her temples, and rolling his thumbs there too, and surely it must be that he can feel the tension. Deanna tries hard to look him in the eyes as he works, hoping that at the point he finally can meet her stare, he will see that he makes her uncomfortable, that she is a _person_ after all.

"Nothing reported,"

Beverly says plainly, but it is the special foothold she has in the woman's mind that tells her this is possibly back-handed, that she has chosen her words specifically to cover whatever Deanna chooses not to disclose - a wise move, she surmises.

"Excellent, so no issues with vision or water retention, no signs of pre-eclampsia?"

Now it feels as though he is pushing too hard on the point, forgetting that Beverly is a doctor too; Deanna looks over to her when she responds, knowing she is a _better_ Doctor.

"None at all,"

"Hmmm,"

Derrick murmurs. His hands clasp in front of his chest again.

"So it seems the _pregnancy_ is bulletproof then, if only the same could be said of you Counselor,"

He says smiling, but it is something of a sneer, and it does not sit well inside her.

"I hear you've had a couple of unfortunate run ins lately?"

He stops smiling, fixes the expression into a frown, and still it is strange and foreboding and full of that sneering quality that tells her he is rather enjoying himself here.

She does not desire to open her mouth to explain herself to a stranger.

"It's been part of my job, Doctor Schreiber, I imagine you can understand that,"

Deanna tells hims, measured and well-reasoned and perfectly polite, yet somehow Beverly manages to raise an eyebrow at her, as if she could be _more_ accomodating, when _he_ has intruded.

"Given what's happened on my Ship, I guess I can,"

Schreiber reasons, unphased, reaching for his tricorder where it is clipped into his side.

"But _I_ am not pregnant, Counselor,"

He adds, chastising, and she chooses not to go on.

The tricorder begins to trace up and down her body, just as Beverly had done a few minutes ago, however with more force now, and the woman peering instead over his shoulder, a secondary and not the lead.

"So for the minute Doctor, I wonder if I might take some samples of my own, blood, urine, amniotic fluid, that sort of thing?"

Derrick asks the Doctor, turning his cheek on Deanna without considering what her response will be, assuming the permission is not hers to give, and lies instead with her physician, as if this is _common_. For the first and only second, a stumble occurs in Beverly's mind, she experiences trepidation, though it is fast filed away and disregarded.

"Yes of course, if it'll provide more insight I don't have that'll help us out here,"

"Absolutely,"

He responds almost _too quickly_.

"What I'll be doing then is just taking the sample, a brief history and completing a physical work up, then I'll spend some time with the data and hopeful I'll be able to offer some suggestions for patient care,"

Beverly nods along with him, enthusiastically, as he addresses only her, and she cannot see how Deanna swallows harshly at the thought of _another_ amnio, the first time being quite enough for her to know she does not desire a second. But something tells her, despite any arguments she may offer, there is no discussion here..

"Excellent,"

Schreiber turns back to Deanna before Beverly has even finished letting go of the word, and he fixes her now with a leer, poorly disguised in the way he looks instead to the throbbing veins at her neck.

He regards her as if she has been skewered by a needle and pinned to a wooden board, her ribs flayed open like the spread wings of a butterfly, her frantic heart exposed.


	34. Boys

Author's Note:

Another long absence, another lousy excuse. I've been working on this one for a little while just trying to get the pace right - still not completely satisfied with it but I can't leave the story hanging forever can I?

I hope there's still people reading, if so please leave me a comment and let me know what you think, maybe if there's anything you'd like to see go on next, predictions about the good Dr Schreiber?

* * *

"Geordi?"

There is a chime at her door again, a man whose name she questions aloud, and she has to frown before hauling herself up from the end of her bed, holding the wet ends of her hair in a towel that balls in the palm of one hand. She can feel who is there, but that does not offer her any explanations, it does not aid her memory.

"Come in,"

She calls ahead of herself, and the computer acquiesces, huffing open the doors just as she picks her way towards them, and finds herself stood frozen at the arm of the futon when they see her.

"Counselor, may we enter?"

Data asks her, speaking for himself and the two men behind him, and she can finally recall why they are here, looking down for a brief moment at the gown she intended to sleep in, wondering if that is where his caution comes from, but it is unusually descent of her, so she looks back up at him and smiles widely, falsely.

"Of course Data, I would not have opened the door otherwise,"

She responds in jest, and he offers her a tipped head and the sound of his boots pushing inside, with Geordi following closely at his heel, and the Captain a few steps back from them both, a sheepishness to him that must stem from that same gap in her memory of the night before.

"Counselor, great to see you!"

Geordi exclaims, moving past where Data pauses by her desk, and sweeping expertly through all the mess on the floor to pull her up into his arms, reaching one beneath her shoulder where she still holds her hair up, and the other over her shoulder where she can hold him back too.

She is stunned in it for a split second, but he is so gentle and so genuine that she squeezes him lightly back, and then he pulls away, like it was a passing greeting, so casually caring.

"How are you, you look great?"

He goes on, staying tight to her side, his head turning enthusiastically in each direction to take in all his surroundings properly.

"Well thank you, I'm doing okay, I had not realised you would be coming along too?"

Flattered, Deanna responds, throwing a quick look at the Captain whose face betrays nothing now, then turning back to Geordi with another smile of hers, trying to steer the subject away from herself.

"Oh y'know, building furniture -"

Laforge exaggerates, raising his eyebrows from behind the visor.

"- requires an engineers touch,"

He grins, and she knows it is a half-truth, an excuse, just as he knows it too, sharing in the smiles that say he really just hadn't seen her in such a while that he was _worried_.

"He wouldn't be told,"

Picard pipes up, a fretful smile now made of his silence, as though he has decided to give up on whatever trepidation keeps him by the doorway, and he is far enough inside now that the doors shut softly behind him.

"Yeah well, you don't want the kid to fall straight through its crib do ya', can't trust these goons to do much else than fly the ship,"

The engineer mocks, then fixes the Captain with only a semi-serious expression, because he is chuckling lightly along too, not offended at all.

"All due respect Captain."

Picard nods back, and the confusion that has been straining Data's circuitry finally finds a way to break free, having completely assessed the space around him, and the work they have to do with their evening.

"I will regard _goon_ as a compliment Geordi, if having your assistance means a more efficient experience,"

Deanna reaches a hand up to continue running through her damp her, a shame filling her as Geordi starts to pace the floor with a look of bewilderment on his face, stopping when he reaches the viewport window, and the seat beneath it.

"You really did not have to give up your evenings to help _me_ ,"

She says, self-conscious, and Picard is walking towards her with a smile now of sorrow, and a tilt to his head, holding out a hand in her direction.

"Nonsense Deanna, it's the least we can do,"

He tells her, closing his fingers around the bones of her shoulder and leaning in to plant a brief and perhaps unexpected chaste kiss against her porcelain cheek, something he has never done with her before. It is strange, but somehow she is smiling despite herself, truthfully, when he steps back to regard her whole appearance, to take her in as though she is ethereal.

"Wanna get started then?"

Geordi offers from behind her, and she turns to face the same way as Picard, seeing now how he has already gathered up a stack of plates in one hand, and two mugs held precariously by the handles in his other.

Deanna blushes pale pink.

"Indeed,"

Data responds, and they two start to move and animate in collecting all the various cups, plates and cutlery that lies around the place haphazardly. The Captain sees her expression of guilt, and winks at her lightly, tries to find a way to reassure her without having to say anything at all, using his mind to fixate on these things that bring him comfort, hoping they will allay her own discomforts.

"Can I at least offer you something to drink?"

She asks, turning again to keep track of where Picard moves past her, and they are all in motions that she can't keep track of all at once, her arms held in suspension around that towel her hair is wrapped in, wet where the moisture has soaked through.

"I'll grab something from the replicator Counselor, put your feet up, relax, I hear you've had an eventful week,"

Geordi responds, now at the disposal and watching his stack of plates disappear under its beam, throwing a look over his shoulder that is not even a little scandalous, but perhaps genuinely concerned, and at least somewhat curious.

"The rumours have become quite outrageous to say the least,"

Picard adds, gathering up the stray pads on the sofa and stacking the cushions neatly with a hand motioning she sit there. Across the room, almost at the entrance to her bedroom, even Data turns to comment, frozen mid-action in a stoop where he retrieves a spoon from beneath a discarded cardigan.

"I find the version of events where Ensign Tralk is an escaped convict and you a 'mind control expert', to be particularly inaccurate,"

She sighs as she sits down into the cushions, and rolls her eyes in such an uncharacteristic way, worried more that people's perceptions are becoming harder to change, it seems, rather than that this is only one of many different accounts.

"I suppose it is just healthy conjecture,"

Deanna breathes out, trying not to get angry over this, tucking her legs up beneath her and trying to get comfy. A steam cloud blurs her vision as Geordi holds a mug of tea up towards her from behind the sofa, offering it with a kindness to him she has missed; she takes it from him gratefully between slender fingers.

"I dunno, the one where your eyes go red and you set his nose hairs on fire seems pretty unhealthy to me,"

He adds, and Picard splutters, laughing outwardly as he shuffles the pads like cards in his hands, checking which are important and which aren't. He has already seen three different versions of the same diagnostic manual.

"I hadn't heard that one, it's quite good,"

He titters, then Geordi joins in with a laugh that bubbles in his stomach and leaves him like a suppressed rumble, his attention warily on the glass of water he has in his other hand, watching where the liquid threatens to splash from the brim.

"Okay well maybe it is not _all_ healthy, but at least some entertainment has come from it, I suppose,"

Deanna says, admittedly having found that one funny, and trying to supress more than her own light and measured laughter as she brings the mug to her lips to blow on. Through the steam, she watches as Geordi hands the Captain the glass of water, and they exchange in manners, the laughter of them dying down a little.

"Counselor, your body temperature has decreased significantly,"

Two hands emerge from her back, and she tries not to jolt as Data speaks, shaking a blanket out in front of her and letting it fall over her body; the other two men eye her with new terror now, forgetting that anything had ever been funny.

"Um, thank you Data,"

She manages to respond, offering a weak smile to them all, then taking another sip of tea as they turn slowly back to their actions. A tentative silence follows, and she is afraid that now she has become the elephant in the room again.

The men spend a few minutes in this sacred silence, and she can see as more of the floor is slowly exposed by Data, who collects and sorts through the items of clothing there, sending those in tact to sit in a hamper beneath her desk, and the ripped or otherwise ruined to the recycler. Geordi has seemed to take on the role of collecting up the china, from all areas of her living space, while the Captain attempts to sort through all the data pads, trying to decide what is important and what is not.

Watching them is mesmerising, but the quiet is so unnerving, she finally manages to break into it again.

"I imagine it has been quiet on the bridge lately?"

She asks, aware that she has not been there for a few days now.

Three heads all snap up, so on edge so suddenly, but only Picards remains focused on her once they have calmed.

"Yes actually, I feel somewhat like a one-man command,"

He tells her, standing nearby with a fresh stack of data pads, his eyes bugging out a little in emphasis of the feeling.

"It'll be better when Commander Riker beams back aboard, he was supposed to be back today but requested another day to oversee the final repair teams,"

The Captain explains, but her heart misses a beat over Will, and the anticipation of his return, that she forgets she has to respond, and he fills the space himself.

"I just hope his ego doesn't take too much of a hit when he's back to second-in-command,"

Geordi shares in the light laughter again, breezing past the back of the sofa with a mug full of cutlery in his hand, his other taking the opportunity to graze her shoulder in a brief bit of support, as if he _knows_.

"Well I know _I'll_ be happy to have the rest of my engineering staff back, at least then I'll have _someone_ to command,"

He cuts in lightly, stopping Picard from saying very much more on the topic of Riker, his sensitivity seeing with a brief glance how his name made her hands and face burn hot and white.

"S'hardly worth being _chief_ when there's no-one to be _chief of_ ,"

He goes on to comment, and the Captain's eyes meet him in good-humour.

"Well if you don't want the job, Mr Laforge…"

Picard draws out thoughtfully, then breaks into a smile at the engineers indignance, though it is not long before they are all smiling again, and the mood is returned.

Data passes in front of her line of sight, a stack of furniture pieces casually under his arm when he ducks into her bedroom. She hears the sound of wood thumping against the surface of the bed before he returns.

"I _am_ gonna need my guys back before we even think about getting closer to the Neutral Zone, Cap', even Data's feelin' nervous,"

Geordi says from somewhere behind her, back by the window she imagines. There is the clank of metal on porcelain.

"I am incapable of experiencing _nerves_ , Geordi, I was simply expressing trepidation over the viability of the mission's success,"

The Android clarifies, and Picard's face draws from smile to frown.

"What's this gentlemen?"

He queries, opening the empty desk drawer to drop in a stack of crew reports.

"I believe we are referring to an earlier discussion we had on the increased frequency of skirmishes occuring along the neutral zone,"

Data explains to him, and the Captain turns to look expectantly at Geordi.

"It's not like _that_ ,"

He starts.

"Data was the one rattling off statistics, I only asked the question, and he _did_ make a good point,"

"Which is?"

Picard prompts.

"That you cannot throw one ocean at another without expecting to drown,"

From a quiet position on the sofa still, Deanna pipes up at last, having followed the conversation enough to understand what the meaning is; the three men turn to her, shocked, a little confused.

"Counselor?"

Geordi is the only one not thinking too hard on it to speak, and she twists her torso just enough that she is not pained, but is able to throw one arm over the back of the sofa and regard him more personally.

"I imagine the point we're making is that sending volatility towards volatility is about as likely to end in success as the pursuit of throwing oceans,"

She explains to him, and watches his eyebrows rise highly over his visor as he begins to understand, realisation like a wan moon.

"Ohh,"

The engineer breathes out, then looks up and around at Picard and Data who remain just as confused, all having slowed in their motions to listen to Deanna's soft voice.

"So it's like, fire with fire,"

He adds, and they too nod along with a murmur of recognition from the captain, who slides the drawer closed at last and moves to lean over the back of the armchair facing her.

"Exactly, Counselor, that is the sentiment I was attempting to express earlier,"

"Is that really what you think, Data?"

Picard asks him genuinely, a slight of worry like silver in his eyes, that if an Android has concerns this way then what of his whole crew. Maybe he has been too distracted now by Deanna instead.

"Not think Sir,"

He clarifies, pale face bobbing back up from where he had been stooped behind the sofa, closer to her than she remembers. There is a roll of fabric clasped in his fist, only half closed around the tube.

"It was an assessment based on the historical data available on the outcome of situations such as this, and the Counselor's idiom is quite accurate, historically 89 percent of defensive strategies lead to escalation rather than solution,"

Data then explains, standing from off his knees and regarding the fabric with curiosity, trying to identify it's composition in his data banks. It is something he has never come upon before, but seen her adorned in once or twice since she has been aboard.

"But that _isn't_ the situation here, the Enterprise is just patrolling the border, every ship in the fleet has to at some point,"

The Captain attempts to defend, leaning now over the armchair back with arms outstretched in front of him.

"Yeah, but, you gotta admit, the timing _is_ convenient,"

Geordi adds, holding now a glass of his own beside the replicator, leaning up against the wall and drinking a deep purple liquid from within it, perfectly casual by nature.

"Do a lot of people think this too?"

Picard asks, turning his eyes upon the man.

"They do,"

The three heads spin again to Deanna, who takes another sip from her tea as if she had really said nothing at all, thinking maybe she ought not have a say in this conversation, not a soldier, not the echo of _Starfleet_.

"Sorry,"

She adds self consciously after swallowing down the mouthful, wide black eyes regarding them all as if they are looking in on her glass tank, tapping the surface to see if she is real.

"No, please, go on,"

Picard prompts, and maybe the look on his face is not one of curiosity, but rather of shock - shock still at the powers she possesses, at the way even his mind is just one amongst many. Around them, Data continues to collect the last few miscellaneous items from all the surfaces that remain cluttered, still clutching the roll of fabric indecisively.

"It's just -"

She stutters, has to blink and swallow again, has to find a way to express concepts that do not marry well with words.

"Well, people are confused, they are scared - they wonder if this is not beyond their _duty_ ,"

A beat.

"And yes, they _are_ suspicious,"

Deanna then takes another drink from her mug, if only to occupy her actions so she is not expected to say anything further; behind her, she hears Geordi put his own glass down heavily, and his body right against the floor.

She loves them all, but like Will, they are about as shrewd as apes.

"Should I be worried about a mutiny?"

Picard suggests, only half ironically as he holds on to all the vowels, just to stretch away whatever sound of genuine terror might have made it through.

She manages to balance her mug down on her stomach now, forgetting that the skin is still sore, that a few inches away there is a hole where another needle had made itself known; the child nudges its foot against the porcelain base.

Discomfort finds a home in her voice.

"They have been _more_ confused, _more_ scared, they have wondered more than just what is _duty_ before, but it did not affect them so severely that they could not continue in their positions,"

Deanna explains, and even if Geordi, sitting now on a cleared viewport bench and fluffing up a group of cushions there, is not listening too intently, the Captain is, and he has seen how her eyes flit down to her own body, and he knows just how they had felt _before_.

"The crew respects _you_ Captain, if you seem confident in our orders, they will be too,"

She has to lift the mug away before it is tipped over by the movements, and holds it again to her lips.

"You have nothing to worry about,"

She murmurs into the cup, and it echoes back at her as she takes a larger gulp, swallowing down the final mouthful within.

"The Counselor is quite right again, Sir,"

Data's voice emerges with surprising immediacy, and the Captain has to turn his head sharply to look behind himself, standing now without holding onto the chair; his body turns too.

"History again suggests that this discord is somewhat routine, I have in fact observed similar levels of crew anxiety on seventeen separate occasions, none of which were caused by a lack of faith in your command,"

Picard lets out a nervous laugh.

"Well,"

He blows out a breath and stands back into the centre of the room.

"You could have opened with that, Data,"

Geordi stands too, and they all seem to cast the conversation behind them - forgotten.

Then, of them all, Deanna moves to uncurl her legs, reaching to place the mug down on a newly cleared coffee table. A rush of hurried movement, and Geordi is the first to reach her, offering his hands out to help pull her up.

"Woah woah,"

He exclaims, like he's scolding her, but there is enough of an urgency to his voice that he is just concerned, maybe only a little irritated that she wouldn't ask for help.

"Everything okay Counselor?"

Geordi draws his brows together in question, and more of that same concern, while in the background the Captain is only inches from his back, waiting to be told what to fetch, like they are her watchers now.

Irritated, but never graceless, she responds, taking a hold of Geordi's hands regardless.

"I just need to use the bathroom, you can all calm down,"

There is a strain in her voice as she stands now, pulled up gently but firmly, and she finds herself relying now on a second body to aid her more than she would have a day ago. She reminds herself bitterly, not to get used to it.

"Oh, of course, yeah sure,"

Geordi responds on a breath, feeling a little embarrassed, but also stupid for overreacting, and leading her away from the couch a few steps before finally relinquishing his hold on her, finding suddenly that he doesn't want to, in a feeling that is more tragic than a fleeting whisper.

Deanna then walks away from them all, self-conscious that they watch her go, safe in the knowledge though that they do not leer, rather fold their faces into the strain of worry.

"It's fine to be a little on edge, Lieutenant,"

The Captain comforts once she has disappeared into her bedroom, and his voice is low anyway, coming in closer to Geordi's side so that they won't be overheard. Somewhere around the room, Data has returned to the last of the tidying, sorting these knick-knacks he has collected up onto the cleared sides, trying to find the balance.

"However she says she's feeling, you'd be right to second guess,"

Picard then says, disappointedly, and even a little remorsefully, that there is nothing he can do to change it.

"Counselor Troi is in pain,"

A voice pipes up, and it is Data, turning around from where he has just set down a vase of flowers on her desktop, golden eyes seeking them out as though he states something obvious.

"No Data, she just needs to pee,"

Geordi responds softly, not realising what even his eyes have missed.

"My observations indicate she has been experiencing considerable discomfort for the duration of the evening, I believed it was obvious,"

The android muses, having clearly analysed the situation long ago, and Geordi trades a bemused look with the Captain, his eyebrow raised at how _obvious_ she had been. They know, at least, because they are just human, that it had not been _obvious_ at all.

There is no silence left to speak in however, when the water system flushes out the conversation and they wait with bated breath for her to return to them.

Only Picard has the angle to see where she appears again in her bedroom, scratching absentmindedly at her stomach, and searching something out with her eyes. He turns his body as if to go to her, but remains where he stands to see when she finds a woven blanket on the floor at the foot of her bed.

His body moves much too quickly once he sees her try to bend down to pick it up.

"Here, let me,"

He insists, crouching swiftly at the knees to snag the fabric before she can do any more struggling than she had been in the half a second before he was at her side.

A light pink blush makes its way to the apples of her alabaster cheeks.

"You do not have to do that, I am perfectly capable of -"

"I know,"

Picard cuts her off, standing up with the blanket out in his arms for her to take, and he winks again, like this is some new secret code of theirs.

"But I want to,"

He adds lowly, and she reaches her nimble fingers to wrap around the blanket, drawing it away from him and close to her centre, where she is becoming cold again in the thin fabric of her nightgown.

Deanna walks away from him with no further word, but a half a smile from the corner of her mouth, and he watches her again in silence as she wraps the fabric like a cape around her shoulders, then stops at the side of her chair.

It is the same chair whose twin lives in her home on Betazed, that her mother had rocked her in as a child; she's never bothered to ask why they are a pair. It rocks on two solid wooden sleds, and it is not too low to the ground that she has difficulty getting out of it, with a thickly padded seat in a light heather colour, and a solid padded back much the same. It is fiendishly comfortable, even at the worst of times, and now, with the need to rock _something_ into submission, she is more thankful than ever to have been able to bring it aboard.

It is tall, and opulent, and engraved all over in various climbing vines, and as she sits herself slowly down into its high back, she is just as grand too.

But humble, he thinks, so humble all at the same time.

"You know, we're gonna have to tidy in here too,"

A voice intrudes at his back, and Picard turns his head sharply, away from where he had been transfixed. Geordi is there, full of a lopsided grin and a good-humour.

"You shoulda called before it got so on top of you,"

He adds, moving now to the Captain's side with a hand on his hip, and beyond the doorway, it is possible for her to see how Data continues to bumble around the living space, though she cannot quite make out what there is left for him to do.

"It is not your _job_ to come when I call,"

Deanna tells him softly, rocking slowly back and forth, all wrapped up in that woven blanket, with it's corners draped over where she holds onto her stomach, one hand daring to smooth up and down gently. They imagine, perhaps, there is turbulence within.

The two men then exchange a glance, no telepathy necessary to exchange the name _Riker_ , because it appears instead as the eyebrows that rise above a visor, and the light in the eyes of an older man, in these things that are unspoken.

If it is not _their_ job to come when she calls, then what of Will, and what else is there to do _but_ come, even if she has not called, even if she hasn't whispered.

They turn back to her.

" _You_ didn't call, the Captain did,"

Geordi says, fixing a defiant grin to his face and nudging Picard in the ribs with the point of his elbow.

"So you'll just have to put up with us won'tcha?"

The Captain nods along with this in quiet solidarity, glad at least that he didn't have to flop over inadequate words, that Geordi possesses a much smoother disposition than he.

"I suppose I will,"

Deanna responds, a wry smile matching the engineers own, rocking still as though she is only 5 minutes from home.

"Great, so let's get to work - do you mind?"

Picard says brusquely, bringing his hands together in front of his body, and tipping his head in the direction of the equally messy bathroom.

"No, go ahead,"

Her soft voice permits, and so they disperse with a strange immediacy, wanting to busy those itching hands of theirs with anything that might resemble hard work, even just work, anything that gives her help where previously she had none.

Picard splits left towards the bathroom, and he crosses in front of Geordi who splits right towards the bed, seeing where his gift lies there well-used and wound up in thin sheets.

"I'm glad you like it -"

He remarks, pointing to the body pillow just as the captain disappears from sight.

"Nicola swore by these things when she was pregnant with her two, said it was the only reason she ever made it to work,"

Fingers brush its plush surface, and he tips his head up to regard her, not daring to move it from whatever position she's found most comfortable.

"It was a very considerate gift Geordi, a simple thank you is really not enough,"

Deanna expresses, very serious in the crease of her forehead, showing him that this thing really has become invaluable to her, that she would never have thought of it herself.

"I'm just happy it helps you out, Counselor,"

He responds humbly, moving around the edge of the bed now to smooth out the sheets and blankets around it's corners, absentmindedly straightening it up, even knowing she will likely return to it too soon to make much of a difference.

"Speaking of helping, where'd you want the crib putting?"

Geordi adds, finding himself reaching down to grab up two pillows that have landed on the floor in the night; he offers her one with a gesture, but she shakes her head lightly before responding.

"I had not really thought about it yet,"

She tells him frankly, and he stacks the pillows at the head of the bed before turning on the spot to briefly glance up at her, then to start sorting through a series of pads that he had picked from the mattress-top.

"Well y'know, all those baby books say the kid's gotta sleep real close by for the first few weeks, like in a bassinet or something,"

"A bassinet?"

Deanna questions fast, fatigue deep in the tone of her voice. He looks back at her, more directly and more permanently, holding the pads in one hand against his stomach and running the other over his hair in thought.

"Oh,"

Geordi breathes.

"It's like a crib, I guess, only smaller - s'got a hood over,"

He gestures forward with the same hand, tries to jog his own memory as well as hers.

"Supposed to make babies feel safe?"

He dips his head to the side, and suddenly there is a moment of quiet realisation that crosses her face like a deep shadow.

"Yes, we have something similar, an _arisa_ , for newborns,"

Deanna explains, and he cannot fathom how it is she appears so much the same as everyone else, and yet be so alien to it all still. He smiles broadly.

"Yeah so, what's the arrangement with those then, where do they go?"

Geordi asks her more casually, walking away from her and to the door where Data emerges at his beckoning hand.

"I'm not sure,"

She says frankly as he hands off the pads, and suddenly Data's head appears around his squared shoulders.

"The foot of the bed, Counselor, traditionally, on a rocking frame,"

The android clarifies, and then disappears again just as Geordi turns back to face her, something endearingly quizzical made up from him.

Deanna continues to rock herself back and forth more purposefully, and her own hand has stopped it's rubbing to push down instead in one spot where there is a knee leaving burns against her belly.

"I guess now we know,"

Geordi states with a quirked head, turning along the other side of her bed to collect another discarded blanket, folding it then with a care that surprises her only a little.

"Counselor?"

She turns her head to the side at the sound of the Captain's voice.

He appears in the door frame, blocking the bathroom out behind him.

"This looks important, but I have no clue -"

A black bundle of fabric unlooses from his fist and he shakes it out in front of him with a terribly lost look on his face, flapped, regarding it as though it is completely alien.

"Oh, no it is,"

Deanna tells him, sitting a little forward in the chair so it stops rocking, and she can reach to take it from him.

"It's some kind of support Beverly recommended, I just never could work out how it goes,"

She explains, gesturing just as helplessly to her own stomach, with a hand that speaks to the gravity of it, that she just cannot fathom much of how anything is supposed to work anymore.

Picard nods back with a serious face, makes sure it is secure in her fist before he pulls away from her to stand straight and turn back into the bathroom, behind the dividing wall without a further word. Maybe his silence is just the need to return to work, but something tells her this has made him quietly uncomfortable.

Geordi does not allow her to dwell on it.

"So what did you mean to put together then, if it's not a bassinet,"

He asks her, calling her attention over to the other side of the room, and he is pointing down at the pile of furniture pieces in the centre of the bed, not daring to try to move them, fully aware of the sound they made when Data set them down.

Confusion clouds Deanna's expression for a moment, and she drapes the band over the arm of the chair, recollection failing her.

The frown is sweetly endearing.

"I'm not sure actually,"

She sighs.

"Commander Riker intended to put it together, he probably told me what it was meant to be, but -"

A beat.

"Well, I'm not sure,"

She repeats, and visibly shakes her head, blinking more slowly around spidery eyelashes and sleepy eyes.

"Don't worry,"

Geordi says hurriedly, thinking she has made herself simply sad, moving fast around to the side of the bed where there is a mess of clothes still covering the floor.

"Data'll work it out,"

He finishes before crouching down out of sight to start gathering things up, and she smiles tightly at the easy sight of his head bobbing the movements, where just the crown of it can be seen.

"I thought you said it required an _engineers_ touch,"

She draws out in jest, and the head rises to turn and look along at her, mock indignance in his face.

"It does it does,"

He insists, his voice high but his lips spreading in a grin that betrays him.

"But only once we know what it _is_ ,"

Deanna then laughs lightly at him, maybe in some kind of self-deprecation, and his smiling face disappears again, satisfied.

"So hey,"

Geordi calls, now out of sight.

"What's the scheme we're goin' for?"

He bobs back up, then stands fluidly, arms full of a whole collection of clothes that she cannot identify.

"Blue or pink?"

Carrying the pile over to her closet, he glances over his shoulder with a quirked brow before he disappears yet again.

"That's a Human notion Mr Laforge,"

Picard calls out from the bathroom, and Deanna can't help but laugh lightly again, enchanting, caught between the two of them in the one conversation.

It is friendly and familiar, and she had been so sure that her evening was going to be boring, uneventful, _painful_ , even.

A twinge pulls at the spot in the muscles of her stomach where that needle had gone in, and she opens her mouth to breathe deep, to speak in distraction.

"He's right, Betazed never thought to assign gender to _colours_ ,"

She winces with no-one to see, her stomach tensing up.

"It is actually one of the more confusing aspects to human psychology,"

From within her closet, she hears the recycler engage, and Geordi's amused voice responds.

"I'm glad we're worth the study Counselor!"

Picard then emerges from the bathroom, a towel flung over his shoulder.

"I wouldn't be so sure, if you were anyone else I'd be a little unnerved,"

He says, jarred, offering her a smile and an open palm, inside which is a thick banded ring, made from some native metal he has never seen before.

"I found this on the floor behind the sink, I imagine it's important as well?"

He holds it up to her, and it catches the artificial light along small winding vines that traverse the whole band, a pattern that is random and intimately detailed. Beautiful, but only when it is brought close, and tragically simple from a distance.

Nimble, not-quite shaking fingers take it from the palm of his hand.

"My wedding band,"

Geordi's head bangs against a shelf beyond sight.

She closes her own small hand around the metal, never having gotten a chance to wear it in the honour of somebody's love for her, wondering if he saw the scratch on the surface of the mirror where they had collided.

The sight of her there, not for the first time, reminds him that even the most peaceful people have before been battlegrounds, that wanting to love and to be loved is not enough.

"It's beautiful,"

Picard tells her with such sincerity, positive that she was beautiful too, all dressed up in white and barefooted on the banks of a river, hidden in some obscure mountain cleft somewhere on Risa, benediction beneath her breath before he is even gone.

"It was,"

She laments, remembering how there had been no benediction, no white dress, nothing so obscure as a mountain and a lakeside, how in one instant the ring had turned cold in her pocket, the metal ceasing to hum the spark of love or light up as though electrified.

It is dull now, hidden in her palm, hasn't been _beautiful_ for years.

"I recall reading a text on the psycho-emotive sensitivity of some Betazoid jewellery, but the properties of such a metal were made obscure, and it was unclear if the text was part of myth, or fact - is this one such artifact?"

Data says from the doorway, forgetting that emotions are not always visible, imagining that the look of neutrality on Deanna's face is the truest reflection of what she feels.

The girl then blinks, holds the ring tighter in her palm, meant to protect these things she has been trusted with.

"No Data, it is just a piece of metal,"

She tells him, and beside her Picard straightens out, swallowing, unable to fathom how she can hold a symbol of the future she was denied in her hand, and put _just_ in front of it, as if it doesn't even mean a thing.

"You were probably reading a passage on mythology, I've never come across any real piece of jewellery like that,"

Deanna goes on to explain, and he nods placidly, accepting the amendment to his recollection, the Captain watching on in only mild horror.

"If a metal like that existed, I'm pretty sure we'd know about it Data,"

Geordi says as casually as he can manage, emerging from the closet with creased brows and a hand rubbing over the back of his head.

"Think about it, a psycho-emotive substance, even a resonator or amplifier of emotion, that's the stuff of science-fiction,"

He elaborates, looking across to Data rather than daring to turn to Deanna, willing to ignore this new information he has, so long as they don't have to talk about it; for all he knows, it could be the ring the Miller boy was supposed to put on her finger.

Even though he knows much better than that, he chooses to ignore that too.

"It's a chemical impossibility,"

Geordi concludes, and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of Deanna's mouth, because evidently, there is _a lot_ that he doesn't know.

"That's all very well Gentlemen, but perhaps we could set aside the conjecture, I believe we've got furniture to build,"

The Captain says, clapping his hands together and wringing them, not wanting to spend much longer delving into this topic, recalling with all too much confusion how _just a piece of metal_ had hummed between his fingers, for the seconds he held it.

Something inside him felt like it had been electrocuted.

"Absolutely Captain, are we also decorating the nursery this evening?"

An android query responds.

"No,"

Deanna counters fast, then blushes lightly again, backtracks.

"I just mean that… well, I was hoping to keep it to the bedroom, if that's possible?"

Across the room, Geordi smiles warmly at her, always ready to sweep away the discomfort of a conversation with that charm of his, completely dislike Will's, sweeter and more innocent.

"Ah, the minimalist approach,"

His gaze appears to narrow.

"Never pegged you for a simple girl myself, Counselor,"

She chuckles now, ready to give into the charm too.

"That's only because you've met my mother!"

Deanna then exclaims, and Picard scoffs, stepping away from her side to move over to the end of the bed, examining the stack of furniture pieces there. He nods along with Geordi's laughter too, and smiles as he turns to Data still in the doorway.

"So,"

He starts, shifting gears.

"Any idea what this is supposed to be, Mr Data?"

The android then sidles along to Picard, gesturing out with a hand at what they discuss, as Geordi moves to join them too.

"Yes, I believe these are the components to a 'baby changing table',"

Data states matter-of-factly, his intonation fluctuating over the name, and the Captain blinks sidelong at it.

"And you can put it together?"

"I can, while you and Geordi assemble the-"

Picard claps Data on the shoulder to stop him from saying anything else.

"Yes,"

He hisses out through his teeth, and Geordi emerges at his other side.

"While assemble that _other_ thing,"

The engineer says in kind, and the two of them are only moments from stepping on Data's foot and clamping a hand over his mouth to shut him up, before a faux realisation makes itself of his expression.

"Indeed,"

Data responds simply, nodding once up and down, then watching as they walk away from him in sneaking silence, out into the living area where they are difficult to follow the movements of.

"Boys?"

Deanna calls after them playfully, laying her hands on the arms of the chair to push her body up a little and squint forward past Data's body, but she can no longer see them at all.

"Back soon Counselor!"

She hears Geordi's voice call back through the space, and then the doors open and shut in a second, and she sinks back down into the seat, turning to face Data.

The android just shrugs his shoulders innocently at her, and she can feel the reverberation of falsehood in all his circuitry, as if she's a machine too, and she knows he will not betray what he has been told.

"There is room enough for this in your closet?"

He asks sweetly, and she has returned to her rocking, a skidding burn along the left swell of her stomach where a flying elbow has flipped along with the child's body; a hiss goes tightly from her teeth.

"Yes,"

She breathes out.

"Yes there should be,"

Data nods, then his expression falls completely neutral as he gathers together the wooden pieces, becoming a means of assembly more than a man. She follows his movements as he assesses so quickly, selects certain panels and fixings then lays them out on the floor how they will go together; she has never even _seen_ a _baby changing table_ before.

Some cynical part of her imagination sees herself putting one child down atop it, then exchanging it for another, perhaps one bred of love and not -

"Counselor?"

Data is kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room, looking up to her with concern anew in his expression.

"I'm sorry Data, what were you saying?"

She asks, blinking to clear the sight from her eyes.

"I asked if you would feel better lying down?"

Data tips his head up, and his eyes scan up and down her body, narrowing around her centre and measuring _god knows what_.

"No, thank you Data, I'm fine here,"

She tells him, and he simply hums a response, another nod of his head before he returns to fixing these wooden sides together.

Very soon, he is facing a hollow frame, peering through the centre to see her continue the same rhythmic rocking motion, both hands now one on either side of her stomach pushing in, as if she tries to contain it.

There is a drawer to his side that he grapples with the runners of, having already fixed them on with such precision that this new display of his is somewhat farcical. Deanna watches in quiet amusement as he tries several times to slide the runners alongside one another, at the top third of the frame where the drawer is supposed to sit.

A firm slam as it gives into his force, and she jumps the sudden shock; the child kicks it's protest.

"My apologies Counselor, perhaps I applied too much force,"

Data apologises, unphased and looking now above the table to scrutinise her expression.

She lets a deep breath slowly out.

"Hm, perhaps,"

Offering him a weak smile, she breathes against the sensation one more time, until her ribs won't open up any further, no space left for more oxygen to live in her.

Data has gone back to fixing on the back panel, a much thinner piece of flexible board which he sticks in pace with precision and a small tube of glue. At least, she thinks it's glue, but more likely it is some kind of composite metal adherent, designed to hold thousands of pounds of force, yet able to be removed with the correctly charged negative solution - that's what he will tell her if she asks.

It is odourless, _thank god_ , now that she is out of breath and rocking, whipping all kinds of air into motion that she's sure anything too strong will set her nostrils on fire. It seems she never really leaves that same sensitivity behind.

There is a clatter as Data spreads out the thin slats that begin to make up a kind of backing to the upper surface, like the headboard of a bed, surrounding every side but the one he faces, and swelling upwards like a bell curve, gentle and intricate. There's probably some reason for its necessity, but she doesn't know enough about the intimate details of caring for a baby to really understand.

She will probably never get a chance to find out, when this _kills_ her.

A shiver runs up her spine at the thought; she draws the blankets tighter over her shoulders and into her stomach, shifting her legs in the seat to move upwards, and fold them crossed in front of her so her belly rests in between. It makes her feel like a child, or as though she is about to pray for something unfathomable, to somebody who doesn't even exist, completely intangible.

"Ahh!"

The cry escapes her before she can really stop it, a pain so sudden and unexpected that she has to let the sound go, lest it tear her up inside.

"Counselor?"

A hand moves shakily over to where a focused jab has hit right where she is bruised and bandaged over, where the needle had threatened to split her in two.

"Uh,"

She struggles to say anything coherent in response at all.

Data is by her side in less than a second.

"It's okay Data, I'm okay,"

It is clear he doesn't believe her.

"Really,"

Deanna tries to affirm, but her hand is still shaking, and the knuckles have gone white holding over the spot.

"It was just the baby,"

She tells him, meeting his eyes now with poorly masked terror, reeling over how powerful it had been, how _painful_.

Golden irises stare back, but he dare not touch her, and he doesn't want to fight, so he thinks on these other questions he has kept stored up in his mind, that he might perhaps distract her for the moment.

"You were kicked?"

Data asks innocently, and she nods with an expanding chest, taking in another inadequate breath.

"And that is painful?"

He presses, and she exhales, showing all her teeth in a grimace of a smile.

"It can be,"

The hand moves away from that same sore spot.

"It was then,"

She blows out to recover herself from the feeling, and she blinks tightly a few times.

While she cannot see, Data comes an inch or so closer.

"I believe, when I first asked, you deemed the phenomenon to be simply _uncomfortable,_ has something changed, Counselor?"

He asks her quite sincerely, trying to trace the patterns so that he can map them out inside his mind, have everything filled away where it ought be, trying not to allow himself to become misinformed.

Deanna smiles, because while she knows that he's simply trying to straighten out his facts, she could easily be fooled into thinking the sheen of lubricant over his eyes is a gleam of anticipation, and that the rhythmic intonations of his voice are the concerns he tries to conceal from her, like any man does.

"I suppose,"

She finds herself starting, glancing around the room for some inspiration on what to tell him that will not further confuse him.

"Well, it can be painful because there is less room now than when you first asked, and the baby is becoming much stronger."

A brief, flashing image of the 500 kilo Banto Wrestlers of Drailor Xi thumping violently on their furred chests, powder mingling with sweat-steam in the air, screams through her mind.

She has to swallow down the notion.

Her whole stomach jumps.

"Counselor?"

Data readies to stand, but she puts her hand on his solid forearm and pulls him back down to crouch again.

"It's just hiccups Data,"

She tells him, and again he tries to stand.

"I should get you a glass of water then,"

"No,"

Deanna pulls him firmly back down again, and the chair rocks a little unevenly on its legs, a sudden strange calmness about her in teaching him new things.

"The _baby_ has them, not me,"

She goes on, a chuckle in her voice.

Her stomach jumps again.

"Do you want to listen?"

She then offers, shocking even herself with the ease of the turnaround, and Data's eyes widen artifice, humanity.

"It is audible?"

He is frowning at the bump, and she opens her arms to beckon him kneel in front of her, at the base of the chair.

"Here, here,"

Deanna takes his large head between the palms of her smaller hands, and brings it down gently to push his right ear up to the surface of her stomach, where the blanket has slipped away.

The feeling inside makes her uncomfortable, but somehow, showing Data, helping him to learn and grow and become his humanity, makes something oddly serene of her, in the wake of something painful.

Mindlessly, she runs the pad of her thumb over his cheek, smooth and cool, means to soothe herself, and her stomach jumps a third time.

Data's mouth opens in a puckered 'o', shining lips held in suspension of the things he doesn't want to vocalise, for fear of missing anymore of this new wonder he has found.

The baby's hiccups become more frequent, and she finds herself counting them just for the sake of counting, calling it _the baby_ , rather than simply _it_ , slowly coming around to the idea that she has a second life alongside her own, whether she likes it or not.

Something that might resemble fondness gleams for a brief moment inside her, but shrinks back in fear at the second she considers what that means, that maybe she is weakening in her resolve simply because that is _easier_.

Data's ear twitches against her, adjusting his audio input eagerly; she smiles.

Easier than what - than holding onto the loss of Will, and youth, and innocence, all as if it was the mark of who she was before; easier than letting herself become jaded, and standing in her own way?

A swell of oxygen floods her lungs eagerly, and maybe she just doesn't _care_ enough to think on it anymore. Without realising, her fingers have landed in Data's crisp hair, holding on as if this is another thing that is made _easier_ , just for the prescence of him.

"This is most fascinating, Counselor,"

The man whispers, awed, if such a sentiment is possible of machines, holding himself in suspension for the next jump. And just as it occurs out of time, catching them both off guard, there is a sound out in her living area, of opening doors and hushed, hurried whispers that graze along with scuffing shoes, and the fresh smell of sandalwood.

Deanna swallows around the lump of a memory in her throat, that the smell is too earrie and familiar to be just a coincidence.

A grinning face appears in the doorway, smiling over something she hadn't heard, humming with anticipation that falls away sourly at the sight of Data pressed so closely to her body.

"Counselor! Is something wrong?"

Geordi gushes hurriedly, a head-spinning turn from where his mind had been seconds before.

Data stands quickly from in front of her her, jarring his head away from her lazy grip and swinging it around to regard his friend, ready with an explanation in his circuits.

"Nothing is wrong, I'm fine,"

Deanna manages to say first, her voice deep and tired and soothing, husky almost, and she meets the engineers gaze directly to impress her sincerity upon him. For the first time tonight, she truly does mean it when she says _fine_.

"He was listening to the baby's hiccups,"

She explains softly, and Geordi's right eyebrow soars up, straining against lines of taut skin and the knowledge that Picard waits for him still in the living area.

"Hiccups?"

He repeats with as little horror as he can manage, and Deanna is laughing with that same softness, not quite happy, but enamoured of his childish emotions.

Damp curls spring about her head as she nods in response.

"Well that's -"

Geordi tries to express what he feels to this, ignoring his gut response of more than just horror, and swallowing down diplomatically.

"- weird."

"Yes,"

Deanna responds in a chime, her smile audible.

"It feels that way."

From behind Geordi, a struggling figure emerges.

"Mr Laforge,"

It begins, strained.

"This is -"

There is a bang, and a low curse, before Picard comes fully into view.

"- _heavy_."

Another thud and he has dropped whatever he carried to the floor, moving fast to rub at his left elbow where he had hit it on the doorway.

"I _was_ coming back, Captain,"

Geordi tells him with mirth, forgetting whatever had him held up anyway, and he moves his body hastily to turn his back on Deanna, and shift in the way of her line of sight, so that the object now askew on the floor is obscured from her view.

"Well, it's in here now, shall we unveil?"

The Captain asks lowly, conspiratorial again, and at her side Data jogs almost excitedly on the balls of his feet, straining too to see over Geordi's head, even knowing what is there.

"Dum da-da dum!"

The engineer sing-songs, sliding out of the way with arms outstretched in front of him, holding them in a frame to this new surprise.

Picard stands now proudly in front of a tiny marvel: a cradle on two rocking legs, carved of a dark mahogany in twisted knots around its edges, with a solid hood rounded over it's head, and a tiny Enterprise shaped hole at the raised foot.

The two men take a hold of it after a few seconds, each on one end, and they bring it much closer to her to place it down at the foot of the bed, smiling proudly at the open mouthed smile she regards it with.

"Did you -"

Deanna begins to ask, but Picard's smiling, shaking head cuts her off.

"No, not us, Ensign Kravitch,"

He states, and her mind flashes, for a split second, back to the memory of a woman sobbing over the loss of her child, her husband sobbing over not being able to stop it, and the two of them unable to fathom how they would ever come through.

"He came to me a few days ago,"

Geordi takes over, stepping a little closer to her, leaning his hand on top of the changing table that is left forgotten.

"Said you deserved better."

She is forced to reanimate her fingers, bring them up in closed fists to rub the tears away from her eyes, no idea when she lost the control she has over her emotions, or when she became _this_ emotional.

Maybe _hormones_ is not such a bad explanation after all.


End file.
